‘That’s better. " When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word.
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