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. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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