"Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. "All that you have been telling me, our old Kanaka cook summed up in a phrase. I killed him, Nigel. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say.
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