Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. When he was given the telegram he flew to the Praya, engaged the fast motorboat he had previously bespoken against the need, and started for the Macao Passage, with the vague hope of speaking The Tigress. “I didn’t know you were half-Gypsy either. I cannot think he will welcome a French émigré for his granddaughter. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank you.
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