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Though the starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he alighted with his little charge—which he had never for an instant quitted—in safety upon it. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. “I have been training myself to look askance at beautiful things. Burn your palette and your easel. After all, why should I care what strangers think?" Ruth asked with sudden heat. “Let’s go.
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