You must forgive the poet’s license I take. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. As far as I recollect, there were two. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. He looked at her, hurt. There was no response. Accidentally raising his eyes, he saw that he was perceived by the family from Dollis Hill, and that he was an object of the deepest interest to them. “Indeed I shall not forget your offer. They’re all wonderful cooks. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. 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.
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