His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. "Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song.
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