Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna’s ear. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. " His daughter, however, anticipated him. It was Annabel who caught at the paper. And your great-niece.
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