"You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. With an open hand, he slapped her face. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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