For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. "If you mean to accompany us, you may need it. “Child!” he cried. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. It’s not you—not a bit. “Mid-thirties. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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