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“The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. ” She put her face closer to his. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is.
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