"Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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