Deny me, if you please. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. “Cheveney!” she repeated. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked.
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