There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. ‘Pen and paper, do you have them?’ ‘Danged if I have,’ came the truculent response. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. She saw his eyes glaze over.
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