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McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. ” She went as far as her door, then turned to the window. Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. Wood heard the cry. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Oh God! pardon me.
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