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“I think,” he said, “that I am right. Please yourself. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. They were a young man and an old one, and both appeared deeply affected. . The streets were full of colour. But that possibility had been anticipated. . They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. ‘That is my mother.

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