So it was with Gosse, who had wanted to marry her. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. He hugged her when he saw her in the hallway.
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