“I prepare to close my hand,” called the auctioneer.

“I prepare to close my hand,” called the auctioneer.
“Ninety-eight!” I cried out, suddenly. I was startled to hear my own voice. The girl lifted her head, dully. “Ninety-eight, I have ninety-eight,” called the auctioneer.
“Do I hear more? Do I hear more?” There was silence.
“I prepare to close my hand,” said the auctioneer. “I close my hand!”
I owned Miss Henderson.

Rogue of Gor, p. 128

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