"Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. " "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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