. ’ ‘By all means,’ agreed Lucy at once, and ignoring the automatic protest that issued from Roding’s lips, she threw a command over her shoulder as she turned to go. He wanted to become a millionaire. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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