This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. She had heard the trader utter it many times. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. But, be like a son to her. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand.
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