In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. She told the porter to take it to the booking-office, and it was only after a disconcerting moment or so that she found she ought to have directed him to go to the cloak-room. He got up brusquely. The months that followed September spiraled downward.
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