He had not had time to aim the pistol. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street.
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