She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. Only she hadn’t. “I don’t know why.
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