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’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it all up, never to go near the ‘Ambassador’s’ again. It was a mad half-hour. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco.
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