Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. "This she-devil has got hold of the sack. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. You are my prisoner, murderer. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. Natives are queer.
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