He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. Sheppard returned no answer. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression.
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