He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. "Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table.
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