Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. Kneebone's visit, Mrs. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. "My friend here," said McClintock, "tells me you are looking for a job.
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