"This gentleman wants a pair of oars," said the landlord. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked. This was just what he needed. Never really thought about Him—people don’t. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended.
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