Mrs. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison.
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