F. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. I've opened the case of books. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause. I don’t think they do matter.
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