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Eighth Edition
C++ PROGRAMMING
Program Design Including
Data Structures
D.S. Malik
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C++ Programming:
Program Design Including Data Structures
Eighth Edition
D.S. Malik
Australia • Brazil • Japan • Korea • Mexico • Singapore • Spain • United Kingdom • United States
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C++ Programming: Program Design Including © 2018, 2015, 2013 Cengage Learning® 8
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Brief Contents
© HunThomas/Shutterstock.com
PREFACExxxiii
3. Input/Output 123
9. Records (structs)611
12. Pointers, Classes, Virtual Functions, Abstract Classes, and Lists 817
INDEX 1647
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Table of Contents
© HunThomas/Shutterstock.com
Prefacexxxiii
AN OVERVIEW OF COMPUTERS
1 AND PROGRAMMING LANGUAGES 1
Introduction2
Programming Methodologies 20
Structured Programming 20
Object-Oriented Programming 20
ANSI/ISO Standard C11 22
Quick Review 22
Exercises 24
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viii | C++ Programming: Program Design Including Data Structures, Eighth Edition
Data Types 37
Simple Data Types 38
Floating-Point Data Types 40
string Type 53
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Table of Contents | ix
Output71
Preprocessor Directives 78
namespace and Using cin and cout in a Program 79
Using the string Data Type in a Program 80
Exercises104
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x | C++ Programming: Program Design Including Data Structures, Eighth Edition
INPUT/OUTPUT123
3
I/O Streams and Standard I/O Devices 124
cin and the Extraction Operator >> 125
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Table of Contents | xi
Exercises175
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xii | C++ Programming: Program Design Including Data Structures, Eighth Edition
Exercises245
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Table of Contents | xiii
Exercises326
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xiv | C++ Programming: Program Design Including Data Structures, Eighth Edition
Exercises438
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Table of Contents | xv
Namespaces487
Exercises512
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xvi | C++ Programming: Program Design Including Data Structures, Eighth Edition
Exercises592
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Table of Contents | xvii
RECORDS (STRUCTS)611
9
Records (structs)612
Accessing struct Members 614
Assignment617
Comparison (Relational Operators) 618
Input/Output618
struct Variables and Functions 619
Arrays versus structs620
Arrays in structs620
structs in Arrays 623
structs within a struct 624
Exercises643
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xviii | C++ Programming: Program Design Including Data Structures, Eighth Edition
Constructors671
Invoking a Constructor 673
Invoking the Default Constructor 673
Invoking a Constructor with Parameters 674
Constructors and Default Parameters 677
Classes and Constructors: A Precaution 677
In-line Initialization of Data Members and the Default Constructor 678
Arrays of Class Objects (Variables) and Constructors 679
Destructors681
Exercises724
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Table of Contents | xix
Exercises802
Exercises892
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Table of Contents | xxi
Templates973
Function Templates 973
Class Templates 975
Exercises989
Exercises1043
RECURSION1051
15
Recursive Definitions 1052
Direct and Indirect Recursion 1054
Infinite Recursion 1054
Exercises 1075
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xxiv | C++ Programming: Program Design Including Data Structures, Eighth Edition
Exercises1166
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Table of Contents | xxv
Queues1229
Queue Operations 1230
Implementation of Queues as Arrays 1232
Linked Implementation of Queues 1241
Queue Derived from the class unorderedLinkedListType 1246
Exercises1266
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Table of Contents | xxvii
Exercises1350
Exercises1410
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with Unrelated Content
He accompanied his wife to her apartment when dinner was over,
with a solicitude which was perfectly genuine, but which made her
tremble at every turn. His careful anxiety lest she should over-tire
herself upon the stairs, lest there should be a draught in her room,
or, in short, lest anything should be omitted which could conduce to
her immediate recovery from the exposure to the sun—so dangerous
in the south, he kept repeating—made her almost certain that she
was already suspected, and that so much kindness was only
preparatory to some dreadful outbreak of reproach.
While Marcantonio was gone, Diana led Batiscombe out through the
drawing-room to the terrace. Neither spoke till they had reached the
end away from the house, where they had sat together two nights
before.
"Julius Batiscombe," said Diana, her voice trembling with strongly-
mastered anger, "you will leave this house immediately."
"Why, if you please?" he asked, defiantly.
"You know very well why," she answered, turning full upon him. "Do
not ask questions, but go."
"I will do nothing of the kind," said he, folding his arms and facing
her. "You have no earthly reason to give, save your own caprice."
"I heard your conversation this afternoon outside my window. It was
I who made the noise you heard, to warn you to be silent." She
made the statement deliberately, choking down her anger, and
looking him in the eyes.
"I heard no noise—I was not outside your window," answered Julius,
telling the boldest lie of his life, and, to say the truth, one of very
few, for he never lied to save himself, with all his faults. "I was not
outside your window," he repeated, "and I am glad I was not. For,
by your own account, you heard the conversation first, and gave
your signal afterwards."
"Very well," said she. "I will not shame you by repeating the words I
involuntarily heard before I frightened you away. But you will leave
this house to-morrow all the same. You will also consider that in
future you have no title to cross my threshold, nor to bow to me in
the street." She turned swiftly, in utter scorn and disdain.
Batiscombe followed her to the door and into the drawing-room,
where Marcantonio met them, precisely as he had done before. It
was too much for his newly roused suspicions. Something had gone
wrong, he was sure,—and why should his sister and Batiscombe be
everlastingly alone together on that terrace at night?
"Ah!" he exclaimed, a little sarcastically, "you have again been taking
a little air? Well, well, the evenings are very agreeable. If you will,
we can sit outside, and monsieur and I will smoke a cigarette."
It was dreary enough, sitting together for an hour and more in the
dark. Madame de Charleroi would not speak to Batiscombe, and he
confined himself to asking questions of Marcantonio and to general
remarks. Marcantonio saw this, and decided that she was playing
indifference in public, because she saw enough of Batiscombe in
private. The latter did not force the position, but as soon as Donna
Diana moved to go in, he bade them both good-night, and went to
his room and to his reflections.
There was a long silence after he was gone. Both the brother and
sister wanted to be sure that he was out of hearing. Diana spoke
first, very gently and kindly.
"Marcantonio," she said, "I have something very important to say to
you."
She threw a light paper shade over the bright lamp, and sat herself
down beside him on the sofa.
CHAPTER XIV.
During the four hours which had elapsed between Madame de
Charleroi's involuntary discovery in the afternoon and the dinner
hour, she had found time to collect her thoughts and to form a plan
of action.
It was absolutely necessary to do something at once, and, if
possible, to understand afterwards how Leonora could have allowed
herself in so short a time to fall a victim to the eloquence and
personal charms of Julius Batiscombe. She wondered vaguely how it
were all possible, but in the meantime she knew that the mischief
existed, and that she must do her utmost to avert its growth and
frightful consequences, since she alone could be of use.
Her first impulse had been to go to the window and disclose herself,
whereby she thought she could have put Batiscombe to flight
instantly. He could hardly have stayed in the house with her after
such a scene as must have followed. But a proud instinct forbade
her; she would not have it appear that she could possibly stand to
Julius in the position of Leonora's rival. Nor could she have found it
in her heart to inflict on her sister-in-law the indelible disgrace of an
exposure. All this passed through her mind in a moment, and
checked her first step towards the window. She frightened the lovers
away by upsetting her table, instead of coming upon them herself,
and she knew an hour later that she had thereby lost the power of
managing them by anything she could say to Batiscombe. She would
not—she could not—go to Leonora and force a confession. Besides,
what good would be gained? Leonora was a person to be protected,
not attacked. As for Julius, she knew perfectly well, when she led
him out to the terrace while Marcantonio was up-stairs, that he
would deny everything. He could do nothing else, and he did it
boldly, though it was of no use. But Diana thought it possible that he
would leave the house without a struggle, and abandon the position
for a time.
If Julius had been a less passionate man, and a more accomplished
villain, if he had loved Leonora less ardently and more designingly,
or if he had been less furiously angry against Diana, he would have
acted differently. He would have lied just as he had done, but
blandly and with a great show of astonishment; he would have
made a low bow, answering Diana that he was at all times ready to
obey her, and he would have left the house in the morning, with an
elaborate excuse to his hosts. But Batiscombe was quite another sort
of person. One of the calmest and most diplomatic of men under
ordinary circumstances, his passion when roused was wholly
uncontrollable. He was madly in love, and madly angry, and he
would have cheerfully fought the whole world single-handed for the
sake of his love, or of his anger, separately, let alone in the present
case, when both were roused to the fiercest pitch.
Diana knew him well, and, after the few words she had exchanged
with him on the terrace, she knew what to expect. And she had
foreseen the possibility of his refusal to leave the villa, and was
prepared for it. The only question of difficulty was to direct
Marcantonio's whole anger against Batiscombe, and to shield
Leonora as far as possible; but Marcantonio must be told of the
danger, since Diana alone was unable to avert it.
She sat beside him on the deep sofa in the drawing-room, and she
laid her hand affectionately on his, as though to give him some
strength to bear what was in store.
"It is very important," she said, "and you must be very patient. You
must give me your word that you will do nothing violent for at least
a day, for you will be very angry." She knew that, with all his good
nature, she could rely on his courage. He was not easily frightened,
after all. He looked earnestly at her, and his face was drawn into a
look of determination that sat oddly on his delicate and rather weak
features.
"Speak, Diana mia," he said simply. "I will do what I can for you." He
supposed, of course, that something had occurred between herself
and Batiscombe.
"It is not I," she said, "it is you who are concerned."
"I?" repeated her brother, in some astonishment.
"Yes. You are the person who must act in the matter. You must write
a little note to Batiscombe, and tell him that your wife's sudden
illness"—
"What? But it is only a little sun—a mere headache," interrupted
Marcantonio.
"No matter;—that your wife's sudden illness is so severe that you
must beg him to postpone the remainder of his visit to some future
time."
Marcantonio looked more and more astonished.
"But I only asked him for a week. He will go of his own accord to-
morrow or the day after. I am sorry, Diana, but you said you did not
mind meeting him." He spoke seriously, with a puzzled expression on
his face.
"It makes no difference," said Diana. "He must go to-morrow
morning. He has not behaved honourably to you since he has been
in the house."
Her brother looked suddenly very grave, and his voice dropped as he
spoke.
"Has he insulted you, Diana?" he asked.
"Yes," said she, in low tones, "he has insulted me. But he has done
worse, he has insulted your wife in my hearing."
Marcantonio turned suddenly on the sofa, and grasped his sister's
arm as in a vise. His face turned a ghastly colour, and his voice
trembled violently.
"Diana—are you telling me the truth?"
Her grey eyes turned honestly and bravely to him.
"You and I never learned to tell lies, Marcantonio. It is true."
She knew well enough that he would never suspect his wife, nor ask
a question which could lead to such a conclusion. When she said
that Batiscombe had insulted Leonora, she spoke the absolute truth.
What greater insult can man offer an honest woman than by
wittingly forcing upon her an unlawful love?
Marcantonio looked at her one moment, and then sprang to his feet.
At that instant he could have killed Julius Batiscombe with his hands,
as perhaps Diana herself would have done. She seized his hand as
he stood, and drew him toward her.
"No," she said, understanding his thought, "remember your promise.
You must do nothing now—except write the note."
But Carantoni was in no condition to write notes. He broke away,
and walked wildly up and down the room, wringing his hands
together, and muttering furious ejaculations. He was too angry, too
much surprised, too much horrified at his own stupidity throughout
the affair to be able to think clearly. Diana sat motionless on the
sofa, as angry, perhaps, as he, in her own way, but full of pity and
sympathy for him, and trying to devise some means of helping him.
She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and her eyes
followed him anxiously in his quick, irregular walk. And as she looked
he seemed gradually to fall under her influence, and went and sat in
a deep chair away from her, and buried his face.
Then Diana rose, and went to the table in the corner and arranged
the light, and wrote, herself, the note to Batiscombe, leaving a blank
at the foot for a signature. She looked round, and saw her brother
watching her.
"Come, dear boy," she said kindly, "I have written the note for you;
sign it, and I will see that he gets it in the morning."
Marcantonio rose and came to her with uncertain steps. He put his
hand on her shoulder a moment. Then he fell on his knees beside
her, and pressed her close to him, silently. Presently he rose, she put
the pen between his fingers, still trembling with his anger, and he
signed the note as best he could. She put it into an envelope, sealed
it, and directed it to Julius Batiscombe.
"He will be out of the house before we are up," she said in a tone of
certainty. "Go to bed, dear boy, and never let him trouble your peace
again."
"But I will trouble his peace," answered Marcantonio, bending his
smooth brows.
"We will see about that afterwards," said Diana. "If you think best to
fight him, I will not oppose you; but we will talk about it. We cannot
talk now. Good-night my dear, dear brother."
She kissed him on the forehead and held both his hands for a
moment, and then led him away. He obeyed mechanically, and they
parted for the night.
Diana often wished her brother were a stronger man in the ordinary
things of life, but she knew that he was honest, and no coward in
danger, and that he always spoke the truth and kept his word. It was
his fault that he always imagined every one to be as honest as
himself until the contrary was proved,—after which he never trusted
the man again.
Diana went slowly to her room and locked the door behind her. With
a candle in her hand she entered the boudoir and looked round upon
the scene of the catastrophe. The glass of the long window was still
open, and the refractory blinds still closed, the bolts rusted in,
beyond her strength to draw them. The servants had raised the desk
upright and washed away the ink from the tiles; there was no trace
of disorder visible. She could hardly realise that in this neat room,
that very day, only a few hours ago, she had passed through one of
the most terrible experiences of her life.
She sat down in the chair before the desk and bent her queenly
head. She had done her best for the right through that day, but it
had all gone by so very quickly that she doubted whether she had
done wisely. It seemed as though the burden of it all rested upon
her—of the right and of the wrong; and the burden was very heavy.
May God in his mercy give strength and courage to all brave women
doing the right!
I think that ordinary women have more moral vanity than ordinary
men; but that very good men have more of it than very good
women. A good man always seems to have a conviction of
goodness, to be quite sure when he has done right, and to enjoy the
sense of having done it. A woman's sympathies are wider and reach
further than a man's. When she has done her best, there always is
something more that she would do if she could, and until that is
done also she can never feel the comfortable delight in godliness
experienced by man, the grosser creature, who hedges his
possibilities more closely, and gets rid of his superfluous aspirations
by the logical demonstration of the unattainable. But the sphere of
ordinary women is narrower, and their sympathies are dispersed in a
greater multiplicity and divergence of small channels, so that a little
goodness, a little easy charity with a pretty name, is a luscious titbit
to the tongue that speaketh vanity.
It was a dreary night to every one of the four,—least of all perhaps
to Julius Batiscombe, whose fierce temper was thoroughly roused
and would not be calmed again for days, giving him a kind of wicked
satisfaction while it lasted. He spent most of the night at his window,
smoking and going over the scenes of the day, and the scenes of the
future. His mind ran in the direction of fighting,—to fight any one or
anything would be a rare satisfaction; and ever as he fancied some
struggle possible the hot blood rushed to his temples and longed for
action, so that he bit his cigar through and through, and clasped his
hands together till the veins stood out like ropes. He slept a little at
last, and dreamed savage dreams of hand-to-hand combat, and
woke with the roar of cannon in his ears. For he was a man of
exaggerated fancies when his brain worked unconsciously, like many
men who have ended in celebrity or in insane asylums.
The roar of the guns was only a servant knocking at his door, with
hot water and a note. He saw Diana's handwriting, and suspected a
new move, so that he was not altogether astonished by the
contents. He understood that she had made Marcantonio sign her
writing—by what means he could not tell—in order to force the
position. There was evidently nothing to be done but to go. He
would not have left the villa for anything Diana could have said, in
his present humour, but it was impossible to bid defiance to the
master of the house. Besides, he supposed that since Carantoni had
invited him to leave, Diana had said something which would lead to
a challenge from her brother, which could naturally not be delivered
under his own roof.
He read the note through twice, and he went about his toilet with
his usual care, looking angrily at himself in the glass as he shaved,
but gradually composing his features to an appearance of calmness.
Then he put his things together, rang the bell, told the servant he
was going to Sorrento on business, and gave him a very handsome
fee, requesting him to bring the things to the hotel in the course of
the day. Julius took his hat and stick, and strolled out of the house
toward the town.
Donna Diana and Marcantonio met in the morning. They saluted
each other with the quiet, mournful understanding of people who
have a common trouble, which they know must be spoken of,
though they desire to put off the evil moment. They were both pale,
and Diana's eyes were shaded by great dark rings that spoke of a
sleepless night.
"Have you seen Leonora? How is she?" was her first question.
"Dio mio! She is very poorly. Poverina! It has made a terrible
impression on her. Of course I did not speak of the subject."
"Of course." Diana sighed and looked drearily at the window, as
though she wished she were outside, away, and beyond this trouble.
She could not know what Leonora would say or do if Marcantonio
ever broached the subject. "I do not think," said she, "that it will
ever be necessary to say anything about it. She will understand that
you sent him out of the house,—she will never see him again."
"Is he gone?" asked Marcantonio.
"Yes—early this morning. I sent to find out."
"Then there need be no time lost," said her brother. "I have just
written a note to De Lancray, at Castellamare. It is much better to
have a Frenchman in dealing with foreigners. He will be here by one
o'clock, and will arrange everything."
Diana had expected that Marcantonio would send for a friend to
arrange matters with Batiscombe. She did not look surprised.
"Have you sent the man yet?" she asked.
"He is getting a horse, I suppose. I have not heard him go."
"Tell him to wait five minutes. This is a serious affair, and we had
better act deliberately."
Diana intended to prevent the duel if possible. Marcantonio was
willing to humour her, and went out to stop the man. When he came
back, she made him sit down beside her.
She explained to him the situation very clearly. Batiscombe had
insulted Leonora, had done her a mortal offence. But Batiscombe
was not the important person in the case. Leonora was the
important person. If matters had been different, if, for instance, a
man had run away with another man's wife, then, of course, they
must necessarily fight,—and the woman made no difference, since
her reputation would be already destroyed. But it would be a terrible
injury to a young wife to have her husband fighting a duel about her
before they had been married three months. People always say
there is not much smoke without a little fire; society, being generally
averse to standing up to be shot at, says that a man in
Marcantonio's position would not go out unless he had very serious
cause. Of course it would say in this case that the cause lay with
Leonora, that she should never have allowed a man enough intimacy
to give him a chance of insulting her, and so forth, and so on.
Diana would not use the argument of the Church's prohibition of
duelling. She knew that Leonora's welfare was the chiefest thing
present in her brother's mind, and that if she could show him that,
for Leonora's sake, he ought to leave Batiscombe alone, he would
assuredly conquer his anger and his pride. He had no sanguine and
combative instincts, like Julius; he did not like fighting for the
enjoyment of it, and if he could be convinced that his anger was
unwise, he would ultimately get the better of it, now that the first
sharp moment of wrath was over. To preserve Leonora's spotless
fame was a much more important thing than to punish an insolent
foreigner for vainly attempting to damage it, and thereby calling the
attention of the world to the fact that her reputation was capable of
damage.
It was a hard fight, and Diana's patience never wearied through the
hours they talked together. More than once she thought it was lost,
and that Marcantonio would order the note to be dispatched.
Nothing but the real affection and trust that existed between her
and her brother made it possible for her to succeed. But at last he
was convinced, and silently went out and got the note he had
written, and tore it up before his sister. The die was cast, and he did
not mention the subject again, but went to see his wife. At her door
he was told by her maid that Leonora was asleep, which was not
true. But he asked no questions, and retired to his own room to
solace himself as he might. He was too deeply distressed to wonder
why Diana did not go to Leonora and sit with her.
Leonora had hardly spoken to any one since she and Batiscombe
had parted on the previous evening before dinner. At table, as has
been seen, she had said little, and no one had seen her since except
her husband, who had gone to her in the morning. After his visit she
rang for her maid and told her to see that no one disturbed her, as
she was going to sleep again and would ring when she wanted
anything.
At the moment when her husband was told she was not visible, she
was sitting in her dressing-room, just behind the closed blinds of the
window, listening to the monotonous, dry hum of the locusts in the
garden, and wondering whether anything would ever happen again
in the world. She was utterly dishevelled, her rich hair falling to her
shoulders and halfway to the ground in wildest disorder; the gay
coloured ribbons of her peignoir all untied and ruffled, her bare feet
half thrust into her gold-embroidered slippers, her hands lying idly in
her lap, as though there were nothing more for them to do. A
strange, wild figure, sitting there surrounded by all the gorgeous
little properties and knickknacks of a great lady's toilet.
Batiscombe was gone! Her husband had told her that he had been
requested to postpone the remainder of his visit indefinitely. Of
course he had gone, then. Marcantonio had supposed she would
understand and be well satisfied. But she had only turned and
hidden her face in the pillow,—as was perhaps natural to a very
young woman when her husband mentioned anything that gave her
a sense of shame. She must have been very much hurt by the insult,
whatever it was, and she could not bear to hear it mentioned.
Marcantonio had not told his sister of this, thinking it would be
indelicate, and was nobody's business but his own and his wife's.
Batiscombe was gone—when should she see him again? How could
he reach her, or she him? What was life to be like without him? And
then the dazed, disappointed, terrified look came again to her face,
and she stared at nothing, vacantly, and like a woman beside herself.
And oh, that other thought! How much did Marcantonio know? It
was Diana, of course, who had made that frightful noise—she could
hear the crash still sounding in her ears. She had remembered too
late that corner room, cut off from all the others opening on the
terrace, and communicating from within with Diana's bedroom—oh,
the folly of it! If only Diana were to come to her—she could kill her,
she thought! She was not so tall, perhaps, but she was much
stronger—she was sure she could kill her! But how much did
Marcantonio know? Diana was so truthful, she must have told him
all. Those hateful people who always speak the truth! Ah, if only
Batiscombe could come back—or see her one moment before he
went. But he was gone already. If he could have seen her this
morning, she might have arranged—it was impossible yesterday
afternoon, he was so wild, so furiously, gloriously angry. It did her
good to think of his blazing eyes, and strong, set teeth just showing
between his parted lips. He was such a man among men! Never
again—never—never, perhaps! She might be shut up—made a
prisoner—Heaven only knew what was in store for her! Dreary,
hopeless, no light, no life—no anything.
Hollow? She laughed dismally to herself. Yes, life was hollow indeed,
now—empty of all joy, or peace, or rest, forever and ever. Pray? How
could she pray? Prayer was an innocent amusement for idle young
women, with imaginary sins and plenty of time. But now—bah!
nothing was further from her thoughts. What could Heaven do for
her? Heaven would certainly not give her Batiscombe again. It would
be wrong—ha! ha! of course it was wrong; but what was life without
him? What had all her life been as compared with the happiness of
the last fortnight, culminating in the happiness of yesterday? It
might be wrong, but it was life; and all before had been mere
existence—a miserable, vegetable, hopeless existence.
The day dragged on; she took no thought of the hours, though she
had taken neither food nor drink since the night before. And always
the maid outside the door said she was asleep.
At five o'clock she could bear it no longer, but rang the bell and said
she would dress, as she felt much better. The maid told her that one
of the men had returned from Sorrento and wished to see her
excellency, as he had executed a commission for her.
Leonora stared a moment, guessed there was something behind the
message, and ordered the man to go into her sitting-room, whither
she presently went, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, that
completely hid her disarranged peignoir. The man handed her a
small parcel and waited. She turned her back, and, opening it, found
a little olive-wood box, and inside that there was a small note with
neither address nor name on it. She hastily closed the box again,
and, turning carelessly, so that the man could see her, she examined
it by the window, as though criticising the workmanship. She nodded
to the man to go, but he stood looking at her with a queer
expression that frightened her. She understood that he had
examined the parcel on the way, probably; at all events, that he
must be bribed. She quickly opened a drawer of her secretary, found
a purse, and gave the fellow a gold piece. He grinned, bowed his
thanks, and retired. He was the man who had taken Batiscombe's
things to town that afternoon.
Leonora had no experience. In novels, people always bribed the
servants; it was most likely the proper thing—the safe thing—to do.
The man would not have gone away unless she had given him
something, she thought.
The note was brief to terseness. It conveyed in the fewest possible
words the information that the writer—name not mentioned—
intended to spend the day, in future, in a small boat with green oars
—underlined with a very black stroke—in the vicinity of a certain
landing known to both the writer and the receiver of the note—name
of latter also not mentioned. And the writer added, laconically, "No
fee to bearer."
She ought to have read the note through before paying the man.
But what could she have done? He had stood staring at her, until he
was paid.
Her heart gave a great leap. It was so like him, so daring, to send
her word at once. At least she should feel, now, that he was always
there, waiting for her—ready to help her at a moment's notice. If
only she could be with him on the soft, blue water, out in the sun!
She could fight now—she could face them all—for he was out there;
at least, he would be there to-morrow. She went back to her
bedroom, and gave herself up to her maid, and had strong tea and
bread-and-butter brought to her, while she dressed; and an hour
later she sallied out, with all her usual elasticity of step and motion,
and all the marvellous freshness of face that distinguished her from
other women. She found her husband and Diana together on the
terrace.
Marcantonio's face softened and flushed with pleasure as he saw
how well and beautiful she looked. She, at least, he thought, had
not suffered long by all this trouble. It was so brave of her to forget
it, now that the man was gone; he was so glad to think that he
could have borne the brunt of it, and had saved her the pain of any
discussion. But he said little, just kissing her hand, and affectionately
leading her to a comfortable chair.
Diana, who had really carried the heat of the battle alone, and bore
the burden of the secret, was very quiet. She saw a little look of
hardness in Leonora's face which she had seen long before, but
rarely. She said kindly that she was very glad to see her up again,
and hoped she was entirely recovered. Marcantonio, said Diana, had
been very anxious.
For an instant the two women faced each other, and Leonora
thought she was beginning to understand her sister-in-law.
CHAPTER XV.
From morning till night, under the broiling sun of August, a
wretched-looking boat plied slowly along the rocks in the
neighbourhood of the Carantoni landing. It was a miserable old tub,
big enough to hold three or four people at the most, and the solitary
individual to whom it seemed to belong propelled it slowly about
with a pair of old green oars. Now and then he would paddle under
the shadow of the cliffs and put down a line, angling for a stray
mackerel or mullet, and sometimes catching even one of those
sharp-finned red fellows that the Neapolitan fishermen called
"cardinals." He did not seem to care much whether he caught
anything or not, but he apparently loved that particular part of the
coast, for he was never seen anywhere else. A big, shabby man, in
rough clothes, with bright blue eyes, and a half-grown, blue-black
beard,—Julius Batiscombe as a fisherman,—brown as a berry, and
growing rough-fisted from constant handling of oars and lines and
nets.
No one took any notice of him as he pottered about in his tub. The
watermen, who passed and repassed, knew him as the crazy
Englishman who found it amusing to bake himself all day in the sun
for the sake of catching some wretched fish that he could buy in the
market for half the trouble. What did they care? They never fished
there themselves, because there were no fish,—a very good and
simple reason,—and if a foolish foreigner chose to register an old
boat at the little fishing harbour close by, and pay ten francs for the
privilege, it was not their business. Neapolitans and their congeners
do not care much for anything foreigners do, unless it happens to
bring them money.
And in the evening when it was dark, Julius paddled away to
Sorrento, and, meeting his own boat on the way, pulled off his rough
clothes, jumped into the water for a swim, and dressed himself like a
Christian before going ashore. Save that he was growing a beard,
and was almost black with the sun, he was as much Julius
Batiscombe as ever when he was on land. He had no acquaintances
in the hotel, and no one cared or asked what he did with himself all
day long.
It was said amongst the fishermen that he had been seen once or
twice rowing a foreign lady about, and they laughed at the idea of a
"signore" earning a franc by ferrying a passenger, just like one of
themselves—for, of course he was paid for it; it amused him,
because he was crazy, poveretto! And sometimes he was heard
singing outlandish songs to himself in the heat of the day as he
paddled about under the cliffs.
The time had sped quickly since Batiscombe had left the Carantoni
villa, and it was now the first week in August. Madame de Charleroi
had stayed nearly a week longer than she had intended, but at last
had gone back to Pegli, to Marcantonio's great regret, and to
Leonora's unspeakable relief. So long as Diana was in the house
Leonora had been obliged to steal occasions, few and far between,
when she could safely go down to the rocks and signal to the
shabby man with the green oars to come and take her off. Many and
long and hot were the days when he pulled his poor crazy craft
about from dawn to dark, without catching a sight of the strong lithe
figure that he loved. But come when she would, at morning, noon,
or night, he was always there, ready to take her and to slip off at a
quick stroke to one of the many green caves that line the shore; and
there, for an hour or two, or as long as she might safely stay, they
spent happy moments together, the happier for being few,
forbidden, and somewhat dangerous.
As for the danger, though, there was not much of it. It would have
been hard, indeed, to recognise in the ill-clad boatman, with his
stubbly beard, and seedy cap of brown knitted wool, the fine
gentleman whom the natives stopped to look at in the street.
Leonora, if any one had met her on the landing, would have said she
had taken the first passing fisherman to row her about among the
caves, and no one would have suspected anything; and she used to
laugh as she watched the progress of his beard, knowing that each
day made the disguise more complete.
Her own boat had given her some anxiety at first, but she had made
Marcantonio lend the whole equipage to a friend further down the
bay, telling him it was too hot to be on the water at present. And
when Diana was at last gone, she had most of the day to herself; for
Marcantonio was perpetually busy with letters, or trying horses, or
going to Naples. He always found his wife extremely charming when
he had been away all day, or shut up in his rooms, and
preternaturally contradictory and capricious when he was with her
for long together, and he concluded that she preferred a certain
amount of solitude, and humoured her accordingly. Never hearing of
Batiscombe, he supposed he had left the neighbourhood for parts
unknown, and though he regretted not having had an opportunity of
shooting him, he knew in his heart that Diana's advice had been
good, and that it was best so. Now and then, when he thought of
Julius too long, he grew angry and paced quickly up and down his
room; but on the whole life was easy and pleasant enough, and his
beloved Leonora was the most charming of women, not half so
capricious as some of the wives of his friends.
How long this state of things might have continued it is impossible to
say, if a disturbing element had not been introduced. But the
disturbing element is seldom far to seek in such cases, and in due
time it came. There was a man in the service of the Marchesa
Carantoni,—the same whom Batiscombe had employed to take his
things to Sorrento, and then to convey the note to Leonora,—and
the man's name was Temistocle, as arrant a knave as ever opened
palm for bribe. Carantoni had taken him in Rome when he married,
because he needed another man, and the fellow's face was familiar
to him. He had seen him in good houses, and had noticed his
extraordinary adroitness in waiting. The man's character was not
altogether satisfactory. He had received no recommendation from his
last place, but Marcantonio took him on trial and brought him to
Sorrento.
Temistocle had exceedingly sharp eyes, and Temistocle had an
exceedingly smooth tongue; he was understood among the servants
to have made economies, and his tastes were somewhat luxurious.
He found Sorrento hot and dull, and he cast about for something
refreshing and amusing.
To take sea-baths had always been his chiefest ambition. It sounded
well to be able to say he had taken a course of sea-bathing. But the
thing was by no means easy at Sorrento. He could not bathe from
his master's landing, and it was a long distance to go round by the
lanes to reach another descent. At last, however, he discovered that
he could climb over the little point of rocks at the foot of the
Carantoni villa, and reach a small cove, where, in complete
seclusion, he might enjoy himself as he pleased. Accordingly, when
he had finished serving the midday breakfast he used to make a
practice of going down to bathe. In his little cove he hid his clothes
carefully among the rocks and crept into the water under the deep
shadow of the overhanging cliff. He could not swim a stroke, but he
could sit just so that the water came up to his chin, and his round
black bullet head lay on the surface like a floating football, scarcely
visible to any one passing outside in the sun. From this position it
amused Temistocle to watch the boats and the fishermen for an
hour or two, enjoying the idea that they never dreamed of his
presence.
It chanced often, as he sat in the water, that Julius, in his outlandish
costume, paddled his old boat past Temistocle's retreat; and the
sharp eyes of the Roman servant were not long in discovering that
the fisherman was no fisherman at all. It was the easier to recognise
Batiscombe, as the man saw him when his beard was only a few
days old. From that day Temistocle watched his opportunity to
descend when the boat with the green oars had just passed, and
would be out of the way for some time.
There was never the smallest doubt in his mind of Batiscombe's
intention in thus disguising himself. The incident of the parcel, which
he had carefully opened and examined, Batiscombe's sudden
departure, and Leonora's simultaneous indisposition, all combined in
his mind into one harmonious whole, from which he proposed to
himself to extract at least a reasonable amount of money.
One day he was rewarded for his pains. The boat passed very near
to the mouth of his water-den, skirting the rocks at a great pace. He
just saw that Leonora was seated in the stern, and he incontinently
ducked his black head, and kept under water till he thought he must
have drowned. When at last he was obliged from sheer suffocation
to bring his mouth to the air, they were gone, and Temistocle sprang
out of the water like some dark evil genius of a low order, awaiting
evolution into the advanced condition of complete devildom. He was
not long in dressing, and in a few minutes he had got back to the
landing, clambering quickly over the rocks, and hurting himself, in
his haste, at every step.
After that, he became more irregular in his habits, lurking in secret
places till he saw Leonora going toward the descent at the end of
the garden, and presently following her at a safe distance. He
ascertained, as he had expected, that Batiscombe spent his whole
time within hail of the landing, in the boat with the green oars, and
that Leonora went down and signalled to him, whenever she had a
chance. Temistocle was so delighted with the skill of the
arrangement that for a long time he could not prevail upon himself
to interrupt it, even for the sake of the bribe that must inevitably
follow. But, one day, he needed money, and he did not want to
encroach upon his purse of savings, for he was a miserly wretch as
well as a knave. He had seen something pretty in the way of a silk
cap, which a stray pedlar had brought with other things, and he
thought he should enjoy bargaining for it the next time the pedlar
came with his wares. He knew that he should probably bargain for
an hour and then not buy it after all,—but nevertheless he might be
weak, and then he should like to feel that he had got the thing out
of his betters by his own skill, instead of squandering money from
his hoard. He seldom indulged in the luxury of buying what he
fancied, but when he did he generally made some one else pay for
it. There was a certain refinement of miserliness about him.
At first he imagined that it might be best to drop some hint to his
mistress, just enough to frighten her into paying for his silence. But
his calmer reflection told him that he would be thereby killing the
goose that laid the golden eggs. Batiscombe's ingenuity would make
some change in the arrangements and he would have to begin all
over again. Evidently the best thing was to make his master pay, and
let the lovers go quietly on their course, so that he could at any time
produce evidence of his veracity. He watched his opportunity.
Marcantonio often inquired whether the signora were in the house,
or were gone out. If she was out he supposed she had gone into the
garden or to pay visits; he never disturbed her arrangements,
knowing how much she enjoyed being perfectly free, and feeling
sure she would not get into mischief. She made a point of calling on
everybody, telling him afterwards where she had been, and the two
or three hours she spent with Julius escaped notice in her clever
account of the spending of the day. Now and then she would say she
had been down to the rocks, in case her husband should ever take it
into his head to go and find her there, and she was quite sure that
by this time Julius was changed beyond recognition.
Temistocle had not long to wait. One day in August, Marcantonio
chanced to inquire of him where the marchesa might be. Temistocle
was prepared; with the utmost gravity and respect he dealt his blow,
speaking as though he were saying the most natural thing in the
world.
"I suppose," he said, "that her excellency is gone out in the boat
with the Signor Batiscombe." He pronounced all the letters of the
name, as though it had been Italian; but it was unmistakable.
Marcantonio turned upon him in amazement.
"Animal!" he exclaimed, "are you drunk?"
"I, eccellenza?" cried Temistocle in hurt tones. "I drunk? Heaven
forbid."
"Then you are crazy," remarked Marcantonio, more and more
astonished. "The Signor Batiscombe is no longer here."
"Pardon me, eccellenza," retorted the servant respectfully. "I
imagined that your excellency knew. The Signor Batiscombe comes
every day, and takes the Signora Marchesa out in a boat. He is
become a very strange signore, for he dresses like a fisherman, and
has let his beard grow as long as this—so," the man explained,
holding his hand a few inches from his face. "Mi maraviglio, io!" he
exclaimed, casting his eyes to the ground.
Marcantonio was speechless with amazement and horror, and turned
his back upon the servant. A man less thoroughly a gentleman in
every sense would have fallen upon Temistocle and beaten him, then
and there. By a great effort, Marcantonio collected himself, and
turned again.
"You have not to make any remarks upon the appearance of the
Signor Batiscombe," he said briefly. "Basta!"
Temistocle had nothing left but to bow and leave the room. He did
not understand his master in the least; he was just like a foreigner,
he thought.
But Marcantonio dropped into an arm-chair, the moment he was
alone, as though all the strength and life were suddenly gone from
him. He could not in the least realise the extent of the revelation
contained in Temistocle's words. He did not know what to do, and
for the moment it did not even strike him that there was anything to
be done. In the course of half an hour he grew calmer and began to
review the situation.
He remembered distinctly every word of Diana's concerning the
trouble when Batiscombe was in the house. Diana had said very
distinctly that Julius had insulted Leonora—and Diana always spoke
the truth. Marcantonio had not asked her what the insult had been.
He could not bring himself to do it, and he did not want to know
anything more. He would have cheerfully fought with Batiscombe on
the strength of his sister's assertion, but she had dissuaded him, and
now he was sorry for it.
The servant had spoken with an air of conviction, as though he
thought it quite natural, and only wondered at Batiscombe's strange
appearance. There could not be any doubt about it, at all.
A new sensation took possession of Marcantonio—an utterly new
passion, which he did not recognise as part of himself. He was
jealous. He did not, he would not, understand the truth, but he
would prevent his wife from ever seeing Julius Batiscombe again,
and then he would go in search of him and wreak his vengeance
without stint. At the same time he hoped he might avoid a scene
with Leonora. He was brave enough to fight the man, but he shrank
from telling his wife what he knew. It seemed so brutal and
uncourteous, and altogether contrary to his principles.
But, after all, he ought to ascertain whether Temistocle were right—
whether Julius really disguised himself. He would go and see.
No, he could not do that! He could not play the spy upon his wife—it
was low, ignoble, unworthy. He would find some other way. His brain
swam and it seemed too much for him. He grasped the arm of the
chair and rose to his feet in pure desperation, feeling that he must
get out of the way into his own rooms for a while, lest any one
should see him in his present state.
In the hall Marcantonio paused a moment, holding his hand to his
head, as though it hurt him, and as he waited the door opened, and
Leonora faced him, beaming with light, and life, and happiness.
Marcantonio looked at her one instant, and tried to speak; he would
have said something courteous, from force of habit. But the words
choked him, and losing all control of himself he turned and fled up
the stairs, leaving his wife staring in blank amazement.
Poor fellow! she thought, he had probably got a touch of the sun.
She hastened to her room and sent to inquire if the signore were ill,
and if she might come to him. They brought back word that he was
dressing, and that nothing was the matter. Then Leonora felt a cold
chill descend to her heart, the dreadful presentiment of a real terror,
not far distant. But when she met her husband in the evening at
dinner, she did not dare to refer to his strange behaviour in the hall.
During dinner he talked much as usual, except that he did not laugh
at all, and seemed very grave. There was a preternatural calm about
him that increased Leonora's fears. She knew him so little that she
could not be sure what he would do, whether anything had really
occurred, or whether he were subject to fits of insanity. He had
looked like a madman in the afternoon.
When they were alone, he offered her his arm, and led her out into
the air, and they sat down side by side in deep chairs. Marcantonio
leisurely lighted a cigarette, and puffed a few minutes in silence.
"Leonora," he said at last, "I have heard a curious thing, and I must
tell you immediately." His voice was even and cold; his whole
manner was different from anything she remembered in her
experience of him; he was more imposing, altogether more of a man
and stronger. Leonora trembled violently, knowing instinctively that
he had discovered something. She did not speak, but let him
continue.
"I chanced to inquire if you were at home this afternoon, and the
man said he supposed you were gone out in the boat with Mr.
Batiscombe, as you did every day. Is it true? The man who told me
said it as though it were quite natural, as though every one in the
house knew it except myself."
Leonora was dumb for a moment. The accusation came so suddenly
that she was taken off her guard, besides being thoroughly
frightened at her husband's terrible calmness, so unlike his manner
under ordinary circumstances. She lay back in her low chair and
tried to collect her thoughts.
"The man had also observed," continued Marcantonio, turning his
keen dark eyes upon her, "that Monsieur Batiscombe had a beard,
and was dressed like a fisherman. Altogether, it was extremely
curious."
Marcantonio and his sister always spoke the truth. Batiscombe never
lied in his life to save himself, but could do it boldly when it was
absolutely necessary to save some one else. He had no principle
about it, except that cowards told lies, and men did not,—that was
the way he put it. He was not afraid of anything himself, but for a
woman he would perjure himself by all the oaths in Christendom. It
was his idea of chivalry to women, and could not altogether be
blamed. But Leonora by a long apprenticeship to a very worldly
mother, and owing to the singular confusion of her ideas, had
acquired a moral obliquity which she defended to herself on the
ground that the ultimate results she obtained were intended to be
good. The telling of untruths, she argued, was in itself neither good
nor bad; the consequences alone deserved to be considered. But as
the consequences of lies are not easily cast up into totals of good
and bad from the starting point, it sometimes occurred that she got
herself into trouble. However, she was not hampered by prejudice,
and she was a very clever woman, much cleverer than the great
majority, and she was just now in a very hard position. In a few
minutes she had made up her mind, and she answered Marcantonio
fluently enough.
"Why," said she calmly, "should I not go out with Mr. Batiscombe
when I please? If he chooses to dress like a fisherman, I suppose he
has the right."
Marcantonio was rather staggered at her sudden confession. He had
expected a denial; but there she sat as calmly as possible, telling
him to his face that it was all true. However, he was not likely to lose
his nerve again now that he was face to face with the difficulty.
"It appears to me, Leonora," he said, "that when I have turned a
man out of my house for insulting you, it is sufficient reason"—
"For insulting me?" exclaimed Leonora in well-feigned astonishment.
"Mr. Batiscombe never insulted me! You must be dreaming." She
laughed a small dry laugh. But Marcantonio was not so easily put off.
"My sister," said he, "told me that Batiscombe insulted you in her
hearing. I have always known my sister to speak the truth. Perhaps
you will explain."
"What explanation do you want? You sent Mr. Batiscombe out of the
house on the pretence that I was ill. Of course Diana made you do
it,—I do not know how, nor what she said. You must talk it over with
her. She was probably sick of him, and wanted him out of the way."
Leonora spoke scornfully, and almost brutally, and Marcantonio's
blood began to grow hot.
"That is absurd," he said instantly. "Perhaps Monsieur Batiscombe
would not object to being confronted with me for five minutes?"
"I am sure he would not object," said Leonora, without hesitation.
She was quite certain of her lover's courage, at all events. She knew
he would face anybody.
"Meanwhile," said Marcantonio, "you will oblige me by giving up your
harmless habit of going out with him every day. I should have
supposed that you would at least have had the pride to deny it, after
what occurred when he was here." Marcantonio was angry, but he
reasoned rightly.
"You would have preferred that I should lie to you, my dear," said his
wife disdainfully, in the full virtue of having told half the truth—the
first half.
"I would not permit myself to apply such a word to anything you
say," answered Marcantonio, with cold courtesy. "But I would have
you observe that you are mistaken with regard to my sister, and that
if she told me she heard the man insult you, he did. Perhaps you did
not understand what he said. It is the same. You will not meet him
again at the rocks—nor anywhere else."
"Why not? Why shall I not meet him?" she inquired, raising her
eyebrows in disdain.
"Because I forbid you." He spoke shortly, as if that ended the matter.
Leonora shrugged her shoulders a little, with an expression of pity,
and shifted her position, so as to face him.
"You forbid me, do you?" she asked, lowering her voice.
"Mais oui! I forbid you to see him anywhere."
"Do you know what you are saying?" she asked, and there was a
tone of menace in her words.
"Oh, perfectly," answered her husband calmly; "and I will also take
care that you obey me—bien entendu!"
"Then it is war?" asked Leonora, as though she hoped it might be,
and to the knife.
"If you disobey, it is war," said Marcantonio, "but you will not."
"Why not?"
"Because I will prevent you. It is useless to prolong this discussion."
"Mon Dieu, I ask nothing better than to finish it as soon as possible,"
said Leonora.
"In that case, good-night," replied Marcantonio, rising.
"Good-night," answered Leonora, still seated. "I am not sleepy yet.
You are not afraid that Monsieur Batiscombe will be announced after
you are gone to bed?"
She spoke scornfully, as though trying to drive a wound with every
word. She thought she knew her husband, and she felt triumphant.
Marcantonio did not answer, and withdrew in silence. In a few hours
his whole character had developed, and he was a very different man
from the Marcantonio of that morning. He had passed through a few
hours of a desperate crisis, and had come out of it with an
immovable determination to clear up the whole affair, and to force
his wife to break off her intimacy with Batiscombe. Even now he
could believe no evil,—only the foolish infatuation of a young woman
for a man who had the romantic faculty strongly developed. It would
cost an effort to break it off,—and Leonora would be very much
annoyed, of course,—but it must be done. And so Marcantonio had
gone about it in the boldest and simplest way, by attacking her
directly. He congratulated himself, for at one stroke he had
ascertained the truth of the servant's statement, and had gone
through the much dreaded scene with his wife. Henceforth she knew
what to expect; he had declared himself as a jealous husband, and
had said he would be obeyed. He went to bed in the consciousness
that he had done the best thing possible under the circumstances,
and promising himself an early explanation with Batiscombe.
But for all the success of this first move, he was wretchedly
unhappy. He still loved Leonora, as he would always love her,
whatever she did, with all his might and main, though he saw well
enough that she did not love him. But he was furiously jealous, and
he swore by all the saints in the calendar that she should never love
any one else. His jealousy had made a man of him.
CHAPTER XVI.
It was clear that after what had passed between Leonora and her
husband, the relations must assume the aspect described in
diplomatic language as "strained," to say the least of it. The two met
many times in the course of the day, and never referred to the
subject of their difference; but Leonora was well aware that she was
watched. If ever she sallied out into the garden, hoping to escape
observation, her husband was at hand, offering to accompany her.
She once even went so far as to go down some distance with him
towards the rocks, she could not tell why,—perhaps because it would
have been a comfort to her to catch a glimpse of Julius in the boat.
But he was probably lurking behind the rocks, just out of sight, and
she could not see him. She knew that he still kept his watch during
half the day, not having yet invented a better plan,—for she was in
correspondence with him,—and in the meanwhile, until new
arrangements could be made, there was a bare chance that she
might escape for a moment in the morning and be able to see him.
Her husband never left her side in the afternoon.
Temistocle, the knave, had failed in his attempt to gain
Marcantonio's favour, as has been seen, but he now reaped a golden
harvest from the lovers, who paid him handsomely for carrying
letters, with a reckless feeling that if he betrayed them the deluge
might come,—but that without him they were utterly cut off from
each other. He had at first carefully opened one or two letters and
skilfully closed them again, but had desisted on finding that they
were written in English, a language he unfortunately did not
understand. It was now his business to encourage the
correspondence to the best of his ability, in order that whenever it
should be convenient to spring the mine, he might have some letter
passing through his hands, which he could show to Marcantonio. He
made a bargain with an old man who had a little donkey cart, to
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