It was red and chapped. "Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. I don’t see that men need bank it with the women.
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