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"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. "You didn't spend it?" "I never intended to spend it—any more than I really intended to steal it. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash.
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