"Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. A vast indifference settled down upon him. Don't be afraid. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. Occasionally he relit his pipe. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.
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