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Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. Vite, I pray you. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. “I mean it. There is strength in you— misguided. “I MUST speak to you,” he said.
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