“My God!” he said again. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble.
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