"One of us has got to die," he panted. “You have forgotten. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. Have you suffered?" "Dear God!… every hour since!" "The Spurlock conscience. "He sails to-morrow morning in the very vessel by which I start," replied Jack. She might even forgive him.
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