CHAPTER I. " The Wastrel rushed. She drove me. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes, from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked love-birds. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "No," replied Jonathan, "I'll not take you at your word, as regards the latter proposition.
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