I might have known it. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. You cannot refuse me this. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips.
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