Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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