The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion.
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