‘I may have been only a secretary, but times are changing. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. I don’t want you to talk to me now. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion.
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