Flower of the North by James Oliver Curwood
page 8 of 271 (02%)
page 8 of 271 (02%)
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Hear the Indian dogs wailing down at Churchill! That's the primal
voice in this world, the voice of the wild. Even that beating of the surf is filled with the same thing, for it's rolling up mystery instead of history. It is telling what man doesn't know, and in a language which he cannot understand. You're a beauty scientist, Greggy. This must sink deep." "It does," said Gregson. "What the deuce are you getting at, Phil?" "I'm arriving gradually and without undue haste to the point, Greggy. I'm about to tell you why I induced you to join me up here. I hesitate at the last word. It seems almost brutal, taking into consideration your philosophy of beauty, to drop from all this--from that blackness and mystery out there, from Donna Isobels and pretty eyes, down to--fish." "Fish!" "Yes, fish." Gregson, lighting a fresh cigarette, held the match so that the tiny flame lighted up his companion's face for a moment. "Look here," he expostulated, "you haven't got me up here to go-- fishing?" "Yes--and no," said Philip. "But even if I have--" He caught Gregson by the arm again, and there was a tightness in |
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