The vote is only the beginning, the necessary beginning. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. “Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair.
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