The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said.
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