” “You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw,” Ennison said. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver.
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