I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. “I say!” he cried.
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