“Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. Their laughter, together with the agonized yowling of the dog, drew a circle of wondering natives; and at length McClintock himself came over to see what the racket was about. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house.
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