It was explosive and gratifying. "We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it. But come in, dear. The doctor frowned. He just wants to get laid. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. "I don't believe McClintock would have gone into convulsions at the sight of it. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted.
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