“You must tell me the truth, please. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps.
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