She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die. "That I can't say. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. But she did not speak.
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