Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boy was a find. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. ” She shocked him by that.
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