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“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. “It’s my fault. You don’t have to have a lot of money to have your own style. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless.
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