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Updated: May 2, 2025
I paid the fares. It seemed that the collodion-scented Don Quixote and the smallest minted coin were strangers. Tripp pulled the bell at the door of the mouldy red-brick boarding-house. At its faint tinkle he paled, and crouched as a rabbit makes ready to spring away at the sound of a hunting-dog. I guessed what a life he had led, terror-haunted by the coming footsteps of landladies.
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