"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.
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