Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey.
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