"Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself.
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