McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. Her steps slowed. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered. I won’t try. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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