“What the hell is going on here, Officer?” He grumbled. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’ ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all. He drew her away from this thought. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears.
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