As the carpenter's gaze wandered over this scene of devastation, his attention was drawn by Mrs. Fortescue, with a bow. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. She leaned back in her chair. " "So am I. You will have a bungalow to yourself," continued McClintock, "and your morning meal will be your own affair.
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