His thought veered, swept out of its channel by an unwonted wave of
bitterness. Klinker had offered him this material, Klinker had advised
him to write an editorial about it, Klinker had pointed out for him, in
almost a superior way, just where the trouble lay. Nor was this all. Of
late everybody seemed to be giving him advice. Only the other week it
was Fifi; and that same day, the young lady Charles Weyland. What was
there about him that invited this sort of thing?... And he was going to
take Klinker's advice; he had seized upon it gratefully. Nor could he
say that he was utterly insensate to Fifi's: he had caught himself
saying over part of it not ten minutes ago. As for Charles Weyland's
ripsaw criticisms, he had analyzed them dispassionately, as he had
promised, and his reason rejected them in toto. Yet he could not
exactly say that he had wholly purged them out of his mind. No ... the
fact was that some of her phrases had managed to burn themselves into
his brain.
Presently Klinker said another thing that his friend the little Doctor
remembered for a long time.
"Do you know what's the finest line in Scripture, Doc? _But He spake of
the temple of His body.
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