"Did I hear you …" began McClintock. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. It is really amusing. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster.
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