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Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. ‘You do not use your head, Emile,’ she said flatly. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her. " "Come this way, Mr. " The latter part of this speech was delivered with so much significance of manner, that a bystander might have inferred that Mr. " A deep indignant groan followed.
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