A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. His spirits began to rise. To—to find myself. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard.
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