"Tomorrow I shall have a visitor. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. Three times she escaped. " "I am acquainted with Mr. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. I guess we could go for a ride.
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