It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Taking up a couple of large stones which lay near, Jack tried to beat the round basils of the fetters into an oval form, so as to enable him to slip his heels through them. He reached for her chin and lifted it up. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation.
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