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There was in her voice that little note of compassion which I had had occasion to remark before, and which irritated me immeasurably, although I could not have said why.

“You have a curious air of pitying me, at times,” I said, “which I am at a loss to understand. Was ever a man less pitiable than I? I have everything I want, and not a tie nor a responsibility in the world. I have found for myself what I conceive to be as close to perfect happiness as is humbly attainable. I am perfectly satisfied. And yet, once or twice, you have looked at me, spoken to me, as if —as if — “

“As if?” she repeated.

“As if I were a cripple!” I burst out, in a sudden excess of annoyance.

“Oh, Mr. Sands,” she exclaimed impulsively, “I think you are the most pathetic figure I have ever seen!”