“It looks all right,” said Capes. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. He fixed it. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. Still, he was puzzled because McClintock had not spoken. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth.
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