Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. 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. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream.
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