She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister.
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