"Not a farthing of it shall be expended except in the Captain's service. I swear it. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. '—'What is it, Mint?' asked all three. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. ” “You think that you can do that?” “I am sure of it,” he answered, confidently. He had looked at it before without comprehension.
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