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“But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. ’ He threw one arm across his own chest and clapped himself on the shoulder. .
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