You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. ‘What is this fate?’ ‘Un mariage of no distinction.
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