There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Cars rushed by on the street, swerving into the middle of the two lane road to avoid the knee-deep puddles forming around sewer grates. Something to tell you. I do not blame you for the act.
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