The lost world

Mr. Malone is here to talk. Let you down, Jessie.". Say'please 'and you come down.

"Mr. Malone is here to talk. Let you down, Jessie.". Say'please 'and you come down. "Oh, you beast!"! Please! Please He put her down like she was a bird. Behave yourself, my dear. Mr. Malone is a reporter. He'll print it all in tomorrow's paper and sell a lot of extra copies in our neighborhood. Challenger said humorously. Then he changed his tone. Mr. Malone, please excuse the family teasing. I called you back for something more serious than that. He put his giant hands on her shoulders. Don't be angry, little woman. Everything you said is absolutely correct. If I had followed your advice, I would have been a good man, but there would have been no George Edward Challenger. There are good men, my dear, but there is only one George Edward Challenger. He gave her a sudden kiss. Now, Mr. Malone, this way, please. We went back to the house where we had left ten minutes before. The professor closed the door carefully behind me, settled me in an armchair, and pushed the cigar case in front of me. "Sit back in your chair," he said, "and listen to everything I'm willing to tell you, and don't interrupt me." "In the first place, about your returning to my house after being deservedly turned away," he stared at me, as if challenging, or waiting for a rebuttal, "the reason is in your answer to the policeman, from which I see that you have a certain good sentiment in that respect, beyond what I am used to seeing in your line of work, anyway. Admitting that the fault lies with you proves that there is a certain breadth in your realm. I ask you to come back with me, because I intend to make friends with you further. He talked about all this like a professor lecturing to his class. Suddenly, he took out a tattered sketchbook from his desk. "I want to tell you about South America," he said. "First of all, I want you to understand that nothing I tell you now can be communicated to anyone in any public form, except with my permission.". It is entirely possible that such permission will never be granted. Is that clear? "It's hard," I said. There must be a short report. He replaced the sketchbook on the desk. "Then it's over," he said. Goodbye "No, no!" Cried I. I submit to any condition. As far as I understand, I have no choice. "Absolutely not." "All right, then, I promise." "On your honor?" "On my honor." He looked at me with a look of doubt in his haughty eyes. What do I know of your honor? He said "Indeed, inflatable castle with slide , sir," I exclaimed crossly, "You are too easy on me, and I have never been so insulted in my life." When I say this, he seems more interested than angry. Are you a Celtic? He asked. I'm Irish, sir. "The Irish of the Irish race?" "Yes, sir." Of course that explains it [Note 2]. Let me see. You have promised me that nothing I tell you shall be communicated in any public way unless you have my permission. I'm going to tell you something. It's interesting. First, you probably know that two years ago I took a trip to South America, a trip that will become a classic in the history of world science. The purpose of my trip was to test some of the conclusions of Wallace and Bates. This verification can only be achieved by observing the facts they report under the same conditions as they themselves observe the facts. If my exploration had not turned out differently, it would still have been useful, but I met with a strange accident there, which opened up a whole new field for my exploration. You know — or, probably, you don't know in this age of low culture — that the area around certain sections of the Amazon is not yet fully developed, and that a large number of tributaries (some of which are not recorded at all on the map) join the Main River. It was my duty to visit these little known areas and examine the fauna there. The materials I found there could write several chapters of great and monumental works on zoology, which would become the identification of my life. When my work was finished and I was walking back, I spent the night in an Indian Hamlet, where a tributary, whose name and position I will not say, joined the Main River. The local people are Gukama Indians. On the way up the river, I cured some of them, and they were so impressed with my character that I found them eagerly awaiting my return. I knew from their gestures that someone needed my help, so I followed the leader into one of their huts. When I entered, I found the man dead. To my surprise, he was not an Indian, but a white man, a typical white man, because he had flaxen hair. His clothes were torn. I knew from the gestures of the locals that they didn't know him at all. He had walked through the jungle to their village alone, and his energy was completely exhausted. The man's backpack lay beside the bed, and I checked the contents. His name was written on the bag: Mapleo White, Michigan, Detroit, Lake Shore Drive, a name I'm going to tip my hat to forever. It is not too much to say that when the cause comes to fruition, the name will be on a par with my own. According to the contents of the backpack, the man was a painter and a poet. There are several poems. I am not a connoisseur of this sort of thing, but it seems to me that these poems are badly written. There are also some pictures of rivers. A paintbox, a box of crayons, a couple of paintbrushes, and that crooked bone that's sitting on my inkwell now,inflatable amusement park, a cheap revolver and a few bullets. That's all that weird American has. I was about to put these things down when I saw something sticking out of his jacket pocket, and it was this sketchbook, which was as broken as you see it now. I'll hand it to you and ask you to look at it page by page and think about the content. 。


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