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Carmody was a quiet man, of a predominantly melancholic humour, with a face that neatly matched the elegiac contours of his disposition. He was somewhat above the average in height and self-deprecation. His posture was bad, but his intentions were good. He had a talent for depression. He was cyclothymic—tall, beagle-eyed men of vaguely Irish antecedents usually are, especially after the age of thirty.
Out of the effluvium of what-is you have won a small but significant portion of what-might-be.

