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“We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said. Why, Nab, you shake as if you'd got an ague?" he added, turning to the Jew, whose teeth chattered audibly. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. “Sir John of course disapproves of me,” she remarked slowly. I’ve got a lot of things to think about.
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