Not up here, I think. You never can tell. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining.
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