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MEN I HAVE PAINTED
serve, be they waiters in a café, or priests, or doctors, or lawyers, are the most numerous. Karl Marx put his tongue in his cheek when he wrote Das Kapital—and he did worse, for he threw a lighted bituminous torch into an inflammable mass that, once set on fire, can never be extinguished. But I am forgetting that when Judge Porter, a master of repartee, whose parries are skilful—though his riposte is still better—and I last fenced with these foils, the seconds never cried touché once.
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