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My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "You open it, Ruth. That will be a fine day—it will have to be, when first you set eyes on Italy. “Am I dull?” she said. Take a room!” “I say!” said Constance. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. "I'll be their substitute.

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