“Dear me!” he said. She found an old drunk wandering the streets. Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boy was a find. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him.
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