‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. We were expecting rather to find a male antagonist. The big pay strikes them; but when they find there's no place to spend it, good-bye!" Tom the cook came in with the chops and the potatoes—the doctor's dinner— and McClintock fell to with a gusto which suggested that there was still some liver under his ribs. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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