CHAPTER I. I hardly see you anymore. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. That old world that had shoved up that silly old hotel, and all the rest of it. Hartford had a very respectable sound. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself.
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