His arms were naturally big and his chest was covered with a smattering of soft hairs. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so.
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