Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
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