The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died. He jumped back, cursing. Come and help me pack. “If you speak—farewell. “What a little brick!” he murmured. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants.
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