Mrs. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman.
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