His sword done with, he took up the bludgeon; balanced it in his hand; upon the points of his fingers; and let it fall with a smash, intentionally, upon the table. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean.
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