The new man may not want me,” Mr. Wilson responds.
“I hate him already,” I say, which is hardly fair since I’ve yet to meet Mr. Hastie. But I don’t know how I’ll cope without Mr. Wilson’s support and advice. Mr. Wilson squeezes my hand.
“You must accept the situation. Mr. Hastie is now God’s man in Calcutta.” Mr. Wilson moves his head to the side and shrugs. “I understand Mr. Hastie is a great speaker and well-trained. He’ll be an asset to the Scottish Mission.”
“But he isn’t you,” I sigh and pick at a piece of lint on my sensible gray dress.
“I think that’s the point,” Mr. Wilson says. “I’m a simple man from a small town in Scotland. I can’t engage in philosophy. I’m not the man for the job. I never was.”
“But you’re my friend.”
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