The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. Who invented them? Nobody knows. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. The soldiers! They must not find her here. It might be upset.
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