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Here was no forgiveness to be asked of dulled senses. No bending in expiation of faults committed. He was here as master. “Fanny, what does this mean?” he asked in cold anger; with no heat now, no passion. “Yaas, me tell madame, she goin’ fur ketch cole si she don’ mine out. Dat not fur play dat kine wedder, no. Teck chair, M’sieur; dry you’se’f leet beet. Me mek you one cup coffee.”
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