Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. She glared at him with satisfaction. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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