He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. I think that I am a little disappointed in you. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt.
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