“You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so.
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