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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"

But I did. And at the
end of a week I flew. The sole memento of that trip was a couple of
Russell prints--and a very bad taste in my mouth. I had all that money
burning my pockets--and, all told, I didn't spend five hundred. Fancy
a man jumping over four thousand miles to have a good time, and then
running away from it. It was very foolish of me, I think now. If I
had stuck and got acquainted with somebody, and taken in all the good
music, the theaters, and the giddy cafes I wouldn't have got home and
blundered into Cariboo Meadows at the psychological moment to make a
different kind of fool of myself. Well, the longer we live the more we
learn. Day after to-morrow you'll be in Bella Coola. The cannery
steamships carry passengers on a fairly regular schedule to Vancouver.
How does that suit you?"
"Very well," she answered shortly.
"And you haven't the least twinge of regret at leaving all this?" He
waved his hand in a comprehensive sweep.
"I don't happen to have your peculiar point of view," she returned.
"The circumstances connected with my coming into this country and with
my staying here are such as to make me anxious to get away."
"Same old story," Bill muttered under his breath.


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