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He went on dressing, with fingers that had lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a bow-knot at the throat of the soft cotton shirt. "Wish I hadn't sent all my starched shirts to the laundry," Shorty murmured sympathetically. "I might a-fitted you out." By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The thick woollen socks were too thick to go into them.
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