" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. " "What a life!" "No worse than yours.
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