"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. “Very sincerely yours, “ANN VERONICA STANLEY. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably.
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