"My child!" he groaned faintly. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Tell me why you ran away from the convent. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place.
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