"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Was the man debating whether or no to tell the truth? A grimace played about Valade’s mouth and the general waited, maintaining his own rigid pose. "Yes … but dreadfully tired. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her.
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