He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “There is my aunt,” she said. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. You’re just a particular being with nothing else in the world to class with you. I can be that man, the one I know you want.
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