“Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. "And someday let him care for me!" She sprang up, alarmed. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. “You could tell me but you’d have to kill me?” He asked with a sardonic grin on his face. It was impossible.
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