He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. Giving him a wide berth, and keeping her pistol high, she made her way to the door and warily peered through it.
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