She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. “Are you sick, Michelle? Maybe you should have stayed home. We came on here at once. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. This done, she waited at the side of the bed; but he gave no sign that he was conscious of her nearness. ‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt. It must have cut him.
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