It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. No one had the resources or the inclination to rebuild them. I swore to hang you two years ago, but I deferred my purpose.
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