Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard. A loud buzz of curiosity circulated among the domestics; some of whom— especially the females—leaned forward to obtain a peep at the culprit. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow.
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