"My child!" he groaned faintly. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. Has he given you the tools?" "He has," replied Bess, producing the handkerchief. We'll have him yet. White, my landlady, believes his story. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. .
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