He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. She leaves town to-morrow. He walked unsteadily towards the door. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. That is so awful. Suddenly he stopped short. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle.
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