He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. The relationship seemed to have almost as much to do with blood and body as a mortgage. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world. I have been sitting with him ever since.
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