Almost light-heartedly. F. " "But I've got to go!" insisted Rollo, in perfectly understandable dog-talk. “Perhaps. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. And besides—We’re going to live, Ann Veronica! Oh, the things we’ll do, the life we’ll lead! There’ll be trouble in it at times—you and I aren’t going to run without friction.
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