Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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