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And she said some beautiful things about making other people happy, instead of looking to ourselves all the time, just as she had talked once, before I went away. And I felt again that hushed, stained-window, soft-music, everybody-kneeling kind of a way; and I was so happy! And it lasted all the rest of that evening till I went to sleep.
"It would be too dishonourable." "Dishonourable?" "Yes. I haven't got enough money. I couldn't ask her to share my poverty with me. I love her too dearly." I was nearly sick. The beast spoke in a sort of hushed, soft-music voice as if he were the self-sacrificing hero in a melodrama. The stained-glass expression on his face made me feel homicidal. "Oh, drop it," I said. "Poverty! Good Lord!
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