Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. "He's dead," exclaimed Austin. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know.
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