"My portrait!" echoed Jack. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. "No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. ‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times. It is to set me right with Winifred.
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