John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned from the west of Ireland. The pages of his time-worn Horace never felt cold to the touch even when his own fingers were cold; they were human pages and fifty years before they had been turned by the human fingers of John Duncan Inverarity and by his brother, William Malcolm Inverarity. "No; it was only to--" But he gave a sick little headshake. --Blast him, curse him! said Cranly broadly.
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