Charley Pevenill was our host. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. Better even than these. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. McClintock was amused.
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