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Lucretia Latham had grown to be a tall, large-boned, silent, and quick-stepping woman a woman of understanding and infinite tenderness, although this tenderness was exhibited in deeds, not words. The big, quiet-faced woman, who had never had a lover and on whom no man had ever looked with admiration, seemed to the casual observer cold and uncompromising.
The hat sculptured and painted here and there, the staring R, the blazoned arms looked down on a vacant floor. Only on a little stool by the farther door, sat a quiet-faced man in black, who read, or pretended to read, in a little book, and never looked up. One of those men, blind, deaf, secretive, who fatten in the shadow of the great.
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