“My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. ” He beamed upon her. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall.
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