"Did you ever see the like of her?" "No," answered McClintock, gravely. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. "This is not the way to obtain it," said Winifred, endeavouring to reach the door. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle.
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