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Unformatted text preview: "I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That's the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable . . . . It looks absurd and that makes it noticeable . . . . With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered . . . . What matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little conspicuous as possible . . . . Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it's just such trifles that always ruin everything . . . ." He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of daring recklessness....
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- Fall '10
- Sort, the house., old woman, young man, impotence