“Hainault, Celeste’s friend. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning.
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