“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. ” “You have no right at all,” she answered. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. “Let’s go.
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