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" "What do you mean, Sir?" asked Trenchard. “Hill gradually recovering consciousness. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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