Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. "Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage, seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. The girl only smiled at him serenely, but she laid her hand for a moment quietly upon his. “We can,” he said, “and we will.
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