It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. Vorsack echoed him. "That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. His aunt, here at McClintock's? It was unbelievable.
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