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Holding the pen, he carefully drew today's bar. After writing, I counted.
Fifteen in total.
He counted again.
Still fifteen.
It is still a long way from the sixty things my mother said.
He pressed it with a paperweight, turned his head, and asked the maid who was closing the window, "Who's arguing outside?"
Just when he was still writing, he heard a loud noise wafting faintly in the wind from outside the yard. It sounded like an elderly woman.
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