CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts. He’s been near it once or twice already. But are we any more free?” “Well?” “I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls.
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