Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. “That’s what we narcs have to do. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. Life waits for us.
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