’ He only laughed. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Loved his memory still, for all he knew. ‘It is not your affair. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. Give me but leave to try. We dine at seven-thirty. " Here Ruth returned with the broth; and McClintock strode aft, convinced that he was going to have something far more interesting than books to read.
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