You’re tired, of course. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. This was enough for the poor widow. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. He spoke in quick nervous sentences. Do you know what? You're some sea goddess and you're only fooling us.
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