She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. What she said is true. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully.
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