haven’t shown it to anyone.” His fingers fumbled, opening the straps. “Not to mother or Ellsworth Toohey ... I just want you to tell me if there’s any ...” He handed to Roark six of his canvases. Roark looked at them, one after another. He took a longer time than he needed. When he could trust himself to lift his eyes, he shook his head in silent answer to the word Keating had not pronounced. “It’s too late, Peter,” he said gently. Keating nodded. “Guess I ... knew that.” When Keating had gone, Roark leaned against the door, closing his eyes. He was sick with pity. He had never felt this
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