He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. It was impossible. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. He nodded silently, too full for words. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. “It is from his brother in Paris. Always! I don’t believe there is any strong natural affection at all between parents and growing-up children.
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