McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. He drew her closer. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride.
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