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The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. “We are the species,” said Miss Miniver, “men are only incidents.
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