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“You yourself have decided that—apart from the question of Annabel. And Doctor Ralph stood by looking considerate. The Night-Cellar. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Anna raised her eyes. “Please don’t,” she said. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out.
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