She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. I believe I’m in love. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. “Tell him that he is mad. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. She was watching him intently. I was his wife. Not I. She’s a snob.
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