CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. Then enter Mr. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. “Look here! Aren’t you going a little too far? This—this is degradation—making a fuss with sleeves. " "That kind of talk makes you sound like a white man. C. Spurlock slept on.
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