Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. I'll put you aboard The Tigress to-morrow after sundown. I am far too much the gentleman. Anyhow, that is how things are. I’m minded to take a whip and beat some sense into you.
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