" "Oh, God!" cried Jack, "she does not know me. This spike is more than half cut through. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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