“You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. I must go perhaps in all the rooms. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. . ” “No.
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