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The little man shifted his feet; then allowed himself to inquire, as if regarding the habits of some dear departed friend: "Have you chose any favorite records?" "We all has our picks. Speakin' personal, I'm stuck on that baggage coach song of Mrs. More's." "Moray!" Willie corrected. "M-o-r-a! Heleney Moray is the lady's name." "Mebbe so. Our foot-runner likes that Injun war-dance best of all."
The god, struck twice already, begins to feel himself vulnerable, to know the fears, the nervous weakness of other men. Quick to the signature. MORA! Is it possible? The duke the duke to him! Yes, it is indeed M-O-R-A. And above it: "Popolasca is dead. Election coming in Corsica. You are official candidate." Deputy! It was salvation. With that, nothing to fear.
The god, having already been wounded twice, is beginning to feel that he is vulnerable, to lose his assurance; he experiences the apprehensions, the nervous tremors of other men. The signature first. Mora! Is it possible? The duke, the duke telegraph to him! Yes, there is no doubt about it. M-o-r-a. And above: Popolasca is dead. Election in Corsica soon. You are official candidate. A deputy!
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