I never forgive an injury. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. They are long gone.
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