Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. She got a bun and some cocoa in the little refreshment-room, and then wandered through the galleries up-stairs, crowded with Polynesian idols and Polynesian dancinggarments, and all the simple immodest accessories to life in Polynesia, to a seat among the mummies.
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