To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. .
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