Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. Though the starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he alighted with his little charge—which he had never for an instant quitted—in safety upon it. This girl was strong and vital: how would she take it when she learned that she had cast her lot with a fugitive from justice? For McClintock was certain that Spurlock was a hunted man. . ’ She stopped, for Jack was feebly laughing.
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