I don’t defend it. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. "Did you ever see the like of her?" "No," answered McClintock, gravely. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. Spurling stood her negro attendant, Caliban; a hideous, misshapen, malicious monster, with broad hunched shoulders, a flat nose, and ears like those of a wild beast, a head too large for his body, and a body too long for his legs. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no.
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