She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. It simply doesn’t count.
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