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C. Gianfrancesco became agitated. “I am going to America. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. “How have you been lately, Lucy? You’ve been such a stranger. I've some other things inside, Sir, which you might wish to buy,—some pistols. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. I suppose I ought to have been a man.
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