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"Very well, Mr. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. This roof is still open to you. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. She struggled fiercely not to give way. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. “I believe that you are quite safe.
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