"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow.
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