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He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. Or perhaps my father once. ‘You said it. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously.
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