A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Then he threw the letter at me. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother.
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