‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so. She's my mealticket. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. You're a queer lad. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks.
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