“Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness.
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