Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Not a breath was drawn. “I’m being honest with you. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. “But, dear, think! He is your father.
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