Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. Besides—there is Sir John. His revelry, however, was put an end at the expiration of the time mentioned by Jonathan, by the entrance of a posse of constables with Quilt Arnold and Abraham Mendez at their head. Michelle was laid onto the back seat, her head cradled in Lucy’s lap.
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