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Updated: May 18, 2025
Sinclair's inveterate celibacy was a standing grievance with the Putney women. "If he had a wife who could be our president this would never have happened, I warrant you," said Mrs. King sagely. "But what are we going to do, ladies?" said Mrs. Robbins briskly. Mrs. Robbins was the president. She was a big, bustling woman with clear blue eyes and crisp, incisive ways.
"I won't shoot him in the back if I guard him," declared Arizona. "But if you want one of the other boys to take the jog, go ahead. Put Red on it." "He's too young. Sinclair's get him off guard by talking." "Then try Wood." "Wood ain't at his best off the trail. Come to think about it, I'd rather trust Sinclair to you that is, if you make up your mind to treat him square."
Persis let her work fall. Her eyes met her lover's with a challenge that did not tend to lessen Thomas's confusion. "Well, Persis, you've a right to know. Of course I wouldn't mention it to anybody else. Not that she was a mite to blame," interpolated Thomas with instinctive chivalry, "for it was all my fault from start to finish. It it was Stanley Sinclair's wife."
Sinclair's only son, who was a minister in a neighbouring town, came home to say farewell, dressed in his chaplain's uniform, and the little village lived in a whirl of excitement. The Red Cross Society was busy night and day making socks for the boys who had left, with the result that they each one got far more than any young man with only two feet could possibly wear.
Her neighbor's abrupt rebuke gave Claire a renewed sense of exclusion. She had meant to be warmly appreciative, but she knew now that she had been only coldly polite. But, as a matter of fact, the prospect of delving through a box of Gertrude Sinclair's discarded finery moved her this morning to a dull fury.
They enlisted, however, on their respective sides various partisans, producing a great deal of jealousy and ill will, and increasing the animosity of their husbands. All this time the celebrated Mary Queen of Scots was an infant in Janet Sinclair's arms, at the castle of Stirling, in Scotland.
Young brought the bucket, and McCloud pointed to the caskful of brandy. "Throw that brandy over the wreckage, Reed." The roadmaster started. "Burn the whole thing up, eh?" "Everything on the track." "Bully! It's a shame to waste the liquor, but it's Sinclair's fault. Here, boys, scatter this stuff where it will catch good, and touch her off. Everything goes the whole pile.
Sinclair's entreaties to be heard, till their advance was stayed by the sight of Major Scott's firearms weapons with which they had not furnished themselves, considering them useless in an enterprise to whose complete success silence was essential. Then first they listened to him as he exclaimed, "This man is innocent, and if you shed his blood it will call to Heaven for vengeance.
Karg is Sinclair's spy at your ranch, and you must never feel it or know it; but he is there to keep your cousin's sympathy with Sinclair, and to lure your cousin his way. And Karg will try to kill George McCloud every time he sets foot on this ranch, remember that." "Then Mr. McCloud ought not to be here. I don't want him to stay if he is in danger!" exclaimed Dicksie.
Mary and Emma tripped over the new-beaten snow-path to the cow-house, merry and cheerful, with their pails in their hands, Emma laughing at Captain Sinclair's disappointment at not being permitted to accompany them.
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