" "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. "Now stand before me, Poll. F. Madame shrugged. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport.
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