Each time a daughter had been born to him he had concealed his chagrin with great tenderness and effusion from his wife, and had sworn unwontedly and with passionate sincerity in the bathroom. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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