Tell me I haven’t heard. He agreed it was disgraceful. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. He was heartily thankful for it. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. "Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me.
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