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Berserker, Spurlock rose, head down, and charged. Promise me one thing before I leave you. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. F. Wood, in indignant surprise. Not at all. My boys are all Sandwich Island born.
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