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Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. “It is not that. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. ’ The girl glanced up the road and turned back, annoyance in her face. ‘I must get a handkerchief. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered.
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