The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. I guess they were bad all the time. Oh, God!” Rhea sniffed the air through two gaping nostrils that had eroded through her onion skin flesh. All this muddle to placate his conscience! "Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. CHAPTER IV.
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