"How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Either Sydney or Mr. “Yeah,” Shari nodded enthusiastically. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure.
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