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During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. The Night-Cellar. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Love is a great thing, and happiness a joy. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. The doctor nodded. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. There is a tragedy to come.

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