She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed.
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