The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. You intrigue me. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. The Widgett method of thought puzzled her weakly rhetorical mind. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends.
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