"You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. "I had no thought of injuring your wife, and would have died rather than commit so foul a crime. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart.
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