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‘But it is idiot. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. He did not move. ‘More nor that. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. ” She fumbled with her keys and opened the front door. One particularly humiliating thing came out— humiliating for me.
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