There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. " "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton.
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