"It is your son. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. Their laughter, together with the agonized yowling of the dog, drew a circle of wondering natives; and at length McClintock himself came over to see what the racket was about.
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