The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. But they would not be denied. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. 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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