McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. “I do not know what you mean,” he said, “but if you are referring to any little coolness since our marriage let us never speak of it again. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. The day comes when you shall regret how you have spoken to me.
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