They were only passers-by. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. She would have just to keep the fifteen pounds until she could make it twenty. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls.
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