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There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. "But—sapperment!—I wish they hadn't broken my pipe. All your faults are just jolly modelling to make you real and solid. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home.
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