Gerald’s chest tightened. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. And your great-niece. " "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. "My wife and daughter, Sir," said the carpenter, introducing them to his guest. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms.
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