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‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. \"Thanks for walking me home. ‘I must get a handkerchief. ” He put his hands in his pockets, his mouth puckered to a whistle, and he went to the door of the outer preparation-room and stood there, looking, save for the faintest intensification of his natural ruddiness, the embodiment of blond serenity.
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