At last he took up his thoughts again: “I wonder if, some day, one won’t need to rebel against customs and laws? If this discord will have gone? Some day, perhaps—who knows?—the old won’t coddle and hamper the young, and the young won’t need to fly in the faces of the old. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. He’s a quiet person, and he says that quiet people should never become salesmen. Blood, they say, won't come out.
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