"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. "My invitation did not extend to them. By a sort of instinct. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop.
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