" "Oh! goodness!" ejaculated the tapstress, in alarm. "Poor Mrs. Here goes. "He has heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you're like. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. But I want to know what you are doing. Mr. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance.
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