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"O lud! what an exquisite box!" cried Edgeworth Bess. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. ‘Move, you. “Sir John of course disapproves of me,” she remarked slowly. His fingers closed upon her hand. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally.
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