" "Never count your chickens till they're hatched," observed Mrs. Suppose—suppose a girl did want to start in life, start in life for herself—” She looked him frankly in the eyes. His first date, he was a late bloomer for a Popular. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. They will say that it was murder. He carried a small bag. She glanced into his face.
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