A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. I do not love any one. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. ‘Believe it or not, I do it for pleasure.
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