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Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. " "Unpossible, master," rejoined Ben; "the tide's running down like a mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. I went off to round up his wife. Mischief bubbled up in her. Mr. Her aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed. But it’s as you say. Good-bye. He returned the locket without comment.
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