‘Looks like it. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. It was a pity people had to eat food. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. I rarely set foot in London these days.
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