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It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. “Is it your maid?” he asked. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. 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. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes.

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