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Sixty-nine was an interesting age–an age of infinite possibilities–an age when at last the experience of a lifetime was beginning to tell. But to feel old–that was different, a tired, discouraged state of mind when one was inclined to ask oneself depressing questions. What was he after all? A little dried-up elderly man, with neither chick nor child, with no human belongings, only a valuable Art collection which seemed at the moment strangely unsatisfying. No one to care whether he lived or died…
