McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. Sheppard. She noticed an odd new gleam in Michelle’s eyes, a focus she had not noticed before. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. About two weeks ago.
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