McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. I struck him across the mouth, and across the eyes.
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