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Her hair was white and thin, her nose aquiline, her lips fallen in, a cobweb of wrinkles round her eyes, down her cheeks, under her chin. But her sight was undimmed. "Where are you from? You are not a Dreiberger." "From the north, grandmother," forcing a smile to his lips. The reply rather gratified her. "Your name." "Leopold Dietrich, a vintner by trade."
The citizens scowled at his carriage, they scowled at the mention of his name, they scowled whenever they passed the embassy, which stood in the heart of the fashionable residences in the König Strasse. Never a hot-headed Dreiberger passed the house without a desire to loot it, to scale the piked fence and batter in the doors and windows.
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