He made it brief. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. “Is that all you have to say?” Michelle challenged her. None this end. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. Kneebone.
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