Vorsack looked pale and pink. You cannot care for her. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. “I am not in need of any.
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