But let the horses be in readiness. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Sheppard. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. The well of tears in her eyes was dry.
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