It’s artificially chance. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. Perhaps in the beginning the women made fools of themselves over him. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning.
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