“Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. I’ve got imagination.
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