Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. By George, I forgot! McClintock said there was a typewriter in the office and that I could have it. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. “What the hell. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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