“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all.
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