If Gerald knew, what should stop Gosse from finding out? Perhaps he was even now at the lawyer. "We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. She had looked forward to an explanation. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. "Right!—right!" cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. 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.
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