She looked at me steadily.
“I understand.
But this isn’t only about you, Mr.
Calloway.
If he did this with your thesis, we have to ask whether he’s done it with others.”
I hadn’t considered that.
“There’s one more thing,” she said.
She opened a folder on her desk and slid a single page across to me.
“I read your thesis last night.”
I looked at the page.
It was the cover sheet of my thesis — my name, the title, the date.
“All of it?” I asked.
“All of it,” she said.
“I want to tell you something, and I want you to receive it as a professional assessment, not as a consolation.” She paused.
“Your argument about working-class voice in postwar British fiction is original.
The framework you built in your third chapter is something I have not seen approached that way before.
It is not a perfect thesis — no thesis is — but it is the work of a genuine thinker.
