She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Ain’t enough as I’ve got militiamen quartered on me this se’ennight, lazing about all day, eating me out of house and home and drinking my liquor into the bargain. ” He sat like a man turned to stone. It’s these damned novels.
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