He had been frozen in time at age forty-two. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. Now, I'll be getting along. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create.
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