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“I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. ‘There were the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them.
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