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Roylsden #347

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The domestic scene of a ranch kitchen seemed incongruous with everything that happened during the night and belied the tension he felt. Plates on a shelf glimmered white. Weak sunlight formed a square on the sawdust covered floor. One drawer of an ornately carved sideboard left open. Embers, dead in the grate.
And on the wooden table, a tray holding a half- full bottle of whisky and a half dozen tin mugs and glasses.
Clint closed his eyes for a moment, as if in resignation, then opened them and headed for the study, on his way picking up the tray.

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