’ A scowl crossed the lady’s face. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. But that title he would not endure. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. He had not remembered her as looking so small.
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