"Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him. Her moods were many and always striking. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Cloud back of your hat!" He opened his eyes again.
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