" "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. “Allow me,” the doctor said, “to give you a word of advice, Miss Pellissier.
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