Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. . Also he is ugly. She forced herself not to think of John. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. And nothing to tell her where to begin.
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