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This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. One would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Oh God! pardon me.
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