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Flower of the North by James Oliver Curwood
page 62 of 271 (22%)
"Look at me, Phil--take a good long look," he urged.

Philip stared.

"Am I awake?" demanded the artist. "Do I look like a man in his
right senses? Eh, tell me!"

He turned and pointed to the sketch hanging against the wall.

"Did I see that girl, or didn't I?" he went on, not waiting for
Philip to answer. "Did I dream of seeing her? Eh? By thunder,
Phil--" He whirled upon his companion, a glow of excitement taking
the place of the fatigue in his eyes. "I couldn't find her to-day.
I've hunted in every shack and brush heap in and around Churchill.
I've hunted until I'm so tired I can hardly stand up. And the
devil of it is, I can find no one else who got more than a glimpse
of her, and then they did not see her as I did. She had nothing on
her head when I saw her, but I remember now that something like a
heavy veil fell about her shoulders, and that she was lifting it
when she passed. Anyway, no one saw her like--that." He pointed to
the sketch. "And she's gone--gone as completely as though she came
in a flying-machine and went away in one. She's gone--unless--"

"What?"

"Unless she is in concealment right here in Churchill. She's gone
--or hiding."

"You have reason to suspect that she would be hiding," said
Philip, concealing the effect of the other's words upon him.
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