I think too much about myself. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. That dress is thirty years old, if a day.
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