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Still, it was true about men. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. An ancient smile lay on his lips. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. She rapped again, louder. I have been imaging—” “Mr. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing.
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