He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. Amongst others who attended the sad ceremony was Mr. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Mr. He drew a little breath and stepped back. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience.
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