I told her it was the end. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery.
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