I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. But he reckoned without his host. The pistol was lowered slightly. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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