And I want you for myself—for my wife. The door of cabin 2 was open. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. At a little distance from the party, sat a tall, sinister-looking personage, with harsh inflexible features, a gaunt but muscular frame, and large bony hands. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. “Let’s go. McClintock.
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