“Dear husband,” she murmured. "I don't know what his idea was. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. He begged their attention for the next turn. "He has not the power—perhaps not the will to do so.
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