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CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. He began to tell me something—and stopped. Spurling. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold. That wrappered life, as you call it—we’ve burned the confounded rags! Danced out of it! We’re stark!” “Stark!” echoed Ann Veronica. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think.
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