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His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. Then the foremost bowed and passed on. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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