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"I WAS passing through the waiting-room of the Morning Journal on a certain
evening last year when my attention was drawn to a man seated in a corner. He
was dressed in black and his appearance was that of the deepest dejection. In
fact upon his face I read the most melancholy despair.
He was not weeping, his eyes were dry and almost expressionless and
received the impression of exterior objects like motionless ice. He had placed
upon his knees a small oaken chest, ornamented with ironwork. His hands were
crossed over this object and hung down, accentuating his dejected
appearance."
-Exerpted from "The Double Life"
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