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He hated the taste of it. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. Plainly. Best assured of that.
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