More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. "In favour of my son. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love.
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