But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. They were both dressed in every respect alike. See paragraph 1. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. He, therefore, desires to interrogate him.
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