It was red and chapped. Probably a sick man's whim. That for you!" And she snapped her fingers in his face. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project.
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