"He just asked for his coat, which he wanted under his pillow. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Rollo began to cavort. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said.
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