The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. " Thus urged, the damsels began to raise their voices in loud lamentation. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. And we men would work for them and serve them in loyal fealty.
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