"Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. ” “Excuse me? You are Hitler Youth?” Lucy replied, astounded. .
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