McClintock was amused. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. So I dare say I was christened Jack. Sepulchre's. THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. 'He's a good fellow, and 'twill all end well'.
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