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Updated: May 10, 2025
He saw himself, his fists in his pockets and his nose to the tanging breeze, striding along the Colorado mountain sides, saw himself, lightly poised on any sort of a contrivance that could swing from a rope's end, going down into the darkness of the mine. Then he saw himself and, as he looked, his eyes were steady scrambling over the heaps of wreckage towards the stark form beyond.
His whole person seemed to radiate an excess of life, like the trembling of air on a hot day. His eyes had such force that Maskull could not meet them. He addressed Maskull by name, in an extraordinary voice. It had a double tone. The primary one sounded far away; the second was an undertone, like a sympathetic tanging string.
"Do you not see that Miss Annual, Miss Monthly, and that young alphabet D.O.V.E., have got him within the circle of their petticoats, where he will be martyred on a sigh?" "He casts tanging looks this way; he wishes you to go to his rescue, Pith." "I! Let him take his fill of sentiment! I am no homoepathist in such matters. Large doses in quick succession will soonest work a cure.
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