“Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. She had remained patently unavailable to him. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church.
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