She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. "Thank you; but I've a pocket full of water-chestnuts. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. She remembered abruptly that she was really living upon his money. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. I think we will soon, though.
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