Don’t imagine that. Their poor hands!” “I know,” said Mr. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. I told him that I was not ‘Alcide.
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