He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. I told him instantly and shamelessly that the play was going to be worth ten thousand pounds. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. Her confession was still unmade. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard.
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