” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. He shook his head all the time. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces.
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