The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. The foremost, tall, clean-shaven, perfectly groomed, half extended his hand with a smile of recognition. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. "How do you know he has any rights to be restored to?" returned Jackson, with a grin. Recovery impossible. CHAPTER VII.
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