His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. The ruffian's companions took his part. But you had better know the truth to start with.
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