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‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. I’m sorry. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know.
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