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Austin, or any man of similar dimensions, would have found wholly impossible. Of course, at home there would have been questions. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. Visible underneath his collar were some metal tags. She is, in her way, a dear. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool.
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