And now take away those cards, and never let me see them again. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. He seemed resigned but cheerful, and held frequent and serious discourses with the ordinary, who felt satisfied of his sincere penitence. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. I could not dream of loving you. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. I struck him across the mouth, and across the eyes. Pray, walk in. Too late now.
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