“We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. 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. After all, they’re history in the making.
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