“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. I've come all these miles for this young fellow; but I don't cotton to the idea of lallygagging four weeks in this burg. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. " "Take hence this boy, then," rejoined Trenchard; "his looks unman me. " CHAPTER V.
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