Before his departure, he gave his assistant a glove. "Is it poison?" she asked. It is not at all comme il faut. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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