“What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. “Lucy, you. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. ‘I should not dream of forcing my attentions on you.
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