This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. She did not start for the Imperial College.
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