There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “The man is dangerous. I've always been more or less music-mad. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. Her likeness to her sister gave him at first almost a shock; a moment afterwards he was conscious of a wonderful sense of relief.
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