Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. She pulled a few strands of her hair from her head to leave with Michelle’s. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know.
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