"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. ’ If she suffered from dragging pain in her joints, Gerald thought it explained why her features were prematurely lined. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
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