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"I don't know what it's about," explained Lucas. "Perhaps your people have made a mistake in the name, or something." "Our beoble," said the face in the pigeon-hole, with malignant emphasis, "do nod make mistagues!" There was an interval while the letter was read, and Lucas stood and fidgeted, with a sense that he was intrusive and petty and undesired.
For me the winter underwear yet and the buckwheat cakes." "You haf no boetry," said Lutz. "True, it is yedt cold, und in der city we haf not many of der signs; but dere are dree kinds of beoble dot should always feel der approach of spring first dey are boets, lovers and poor vidows." Mr. McQuirk went on his way, still possessed by the strange perturbation that he did not understand.
"I won't go until you've heard me out!" "We're respegtable beoble!" "Oh, I know, Mrs. Neugass, your kind of respectability. I was reared on it. It's the cruelest respectability in the world. It has no outlook except through the narrow little bars of the small decencies you have erected about yourselves." "That fine talk don't save a girl's skin when she's in such a fix like you!"
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