But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “In a sense—yes. " "Heaven help her!" sighed Jack. You sent back my Christmas checks. "If I were your father, young gentleman," returned Jackson, enraged at the interruption, "I'd teach you not to speak till you were spoken to. There is something sensual in the thought of lotus flowers. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. CHAPTER XXVII.
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