Aaron Stark
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ithal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, --Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.A miser was he, with a miser's nose,And eyes like little dollars in the dark.His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;And when he spoke there came like sullen blowsThrough scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,As if a cur were chary of its bark. Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,Year after year he shambled through the town, --A loveless exile moving with a staff;And oftentimes there crept into his earsA sound of alien pity, touched with tears, --And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.
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