" "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. What is it?" "Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him with the craving of laughter.
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