“Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. "It is your son. Another car followed, a rusty Cadillac sedan full of kids. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. And me, I wish to know why you have seen him. Think better of it.
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