McClintock's astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis. But it was clear she was in no mood for Teddys. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. You called yourself a murderess.
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