Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. Jack now carefully closed the shutters, while Blueskin struck a light, with which he set fire to a candle. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets.
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