“Mr. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. For a few moments Mr. “Solitary walks?” “That’s the point of them. "I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland.
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