He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. He could imagine it even if he could not feel it. ‘That’s wicked, that is. .
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