"I'm afraid, Jack, you'll come to the gallows," observed the smith; "buth if you do, I'll go to Tyburn to see you. It is you who took my name, not I yours. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. She could still feel his psychic presence all around her, and she knew he was thinking of her. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet.
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