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She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. “They say there are spots on the sun. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. I'm a slave to my word.
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