"Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning.
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