" "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. You're on the way to big things. " A prophecy which was to be fulfilled in a singular way. 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.
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