’” “I have no choice,” Anna declared. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. Given time and the right environment, and he would outgrow these defects. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father.
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