" "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. I have given up painting. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. .
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