She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. "Women are always balling up and muddling clean cases. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here.
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