She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. He whispered in her ear.
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