The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. CHAPTER XIV.
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