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Updated: July 24, 2025
On my right was the most woebegone-looking soul, an Italian widow, Lucia, in deep mourning—husband dead five weeks, with two daughters to support. She could not speak a word of English, and in this country sixteen years. All this I had from the forelady in between her finding out everything there was to know about me.
I had not the least notion what was going to happen, or what horrors that woebegone-looking dwelling contained.
Its members lunched early; visiting surgeons and physicians went their rounds at half-past one. George strolled to the Dean's office. A woebegone-looking youth in spectacles stood before the table; opposite sat the Dean. He looked up as George entered, and nodded: he was fond of George. "Come along in," he said; "I shan't be a minute." He turned to the sad youth. "Now your case, Mr.
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