He has no imagination, no real generosity. Rank ingratitude, I call it. " When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign. " "Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit. “Was I that bad?” He asked.
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