And there," he added, placing in his hands a heavy bag of money, and a pocketbook, "is a sum little short of fifteen thousand pounds. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. Bullding is going to. Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided.
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