Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh.
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