“I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. A thousand dollars is a lot of money for an author to earn. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. Her heart swelled to suffocation. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. Stay where you are, Mr.
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