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"I think it is simply great," replied Patricia with a ripple of mirth. "I honestly do, Bruce. I'm going to have a gorgeous time, and I'm awfully grateful to you for it." Patricia set her spangled roses twinkling with a nod of comprehension, but she did not pause. Battersea was supposed to be a Christian; but the barbaric fluid in his veins inclined him to the terrible grotesqueness of African witchcraft, and Dido and her words stirred some dim instinct in his mind. The negress saw that accident had placed in her way a helpless creature who might be of use in her necromantic business; therefore, by hypnotizing him once or twice, she contrived to keep him within her power. All of which fantasy would have been denied by the average British newspaper reader, who can not imagine such things taking place in what he calls euphoniously a Christian land. But this happened, for all his denial..
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"He is the possessor of the Voodoo stone," she said in a low voice. "The horrid things!" murmured Patricia to herself, with her wrath beginning to rise. "I'd pinch their noses for them if they made me kiss them! Elinor's too gentle with them. I wonder why she doesn't pull the string? She could reach it easily now." Griffin nodded. "Tabby March, you know. The young woman who paints pussies. Used to go here three years ago, before she'd arrived. She was a wild one, I can tell you." "Y—yes," responded Patricia dubiously. "But I'll never be an artist. I sort of felt that long ago, but now I'm dead certain of it, and it seems like a sham to haul out that effort in the face of Elinor's splendid work.".
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