By George, I forgot! McClintock said there was a typewriter in the office and that I could have it. He took his social pleasures once a year in Hong-Kong, after Easter. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger.
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