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’ Emile’s eyes blazed. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. She led him up the long hall solemnly. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months.
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