One learns to sit up. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. He was profoundly stirred. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge.
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