McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. Then she came a few steps to meet him. It was the girl. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. But, go and see who it is, love.
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