McClintock sent his yacht over for us this morning. She made me over. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. He wanted her named Mary. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. "Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap. She charged boldly into the space of Miss Miniver’s rhetorical pause.
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