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Mocha's words added to Rouletta's terror, for it showed that other minds ran as did hers. Already, it seemed to her, Pierce Phillips had been adjudged guilty. Through the murk of fright, of apprehension in which her thoughts were racing there came a name 'Poleon Doret. Here was deep trouble, grave peril, a threat to her newfound happiness.
A boot became "the shining leather that the leg encased"; coffee, "the fragrant juice of Mocha's berry brown," whereas the imaginative way is the most condensed and shortest, conveying to the mind a feeling of the thing, and not a paraphrase of it.
"All aboard for the big eats," the latter announced. "Mocha's buttoned up in a stud game where he dassen't turn his head to spit. He's good for all night, but I'm on the job." "I'm having supper with 'Poleon," Rouletta told him. The Snowbird paused in dismay. "Say! You can't run out on a pal," he protested. "You got to O.K. my vittles or they won't harmonize."
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