" The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door. “That is your sister’s name. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to.
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