I WAS talking to him before I saw his name on the card beside the row of microscopes. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. Others pulled hats over their noses, cowered in their seats, and feigned that all was right with the world. Italians. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think.
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