All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. There were shadows under his eyes. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. “Let’s go outside. I was afraid you wouldn't talk to me--you seem kind of shy--but I figured maybe I could still talk you into joining our study group, it goes all year. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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