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She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. F. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. He held in his hands many threads. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. Still, Katy Pfister is a grumpy whore who would open her legs for half the football team if given a chance. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill.
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