It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. He has a grand time. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. "Thank you," she said, and left the office.
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