‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell.
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