“What is the good of talking?” said her brother. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. D'ye hear. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. “He is one of our guests—perhaps I should say boarders here, but he seldom returns before dinner-time.
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