I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. ‘Melusine…Melusine. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark.
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