Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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