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"Small? Why, there's darn near five thousand people there!" "I know, but I want to tackle some sure-nuff city. Like Duluth or New York." "But what'd you do?" "That's the devil of it. I don't know just what I do want to do. I could always land soft in a garage, but that's nothing new. Might hit Detroit, and learn the motor-factory end." "Aw, you're the limit, Milt.
He was an engineer who owned a motor-factory for automobiles in the outskirts of Paris a man about thirty-five, tall, rather heavy and silent, with a deliberate air as though he wished to see deeply into men and things.
And there, staring at her across a table on which he was leaning to perfect his not quite faultless balance, stood Pontefract, money, so far as she was concerned, personified. He owned mines in Cornwall, a highly successful motor-factory, a big London newspaper, a house in Grosvenor Square, and Pomfret Abbey.
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