" "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. " "But, man, this chap hasn't fallen soft. She had to make sure, for the peace of her mind, that this was really the man. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. .
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