"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. ‘Inside, miss!’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘Quick! We need the major. But you had better know the truth to start with. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone.
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