“So you’re the one my son has been talking about. ” He put his hands in his pockets, his mouth puckered to a whistle, and he went to the door of the outer preparation-room and stood there, looking, save for the faintest intensification of his natural ruddiness, the embodiment of blond serenity. Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet.
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