“Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. Another picture slid across her vision. The Chapel 401 XX. He had forgiven everybody. Have you ever voted, Mr. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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