Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see.
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