And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. Manning’s handwriting, and opened his letter and read some lines before its import appeared. And it hampers us. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch.
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