the others were reluctant to agree with him. Here, in Gustav Oppermann’s charming rooms, people were not inclined to concede that a thing as ridiculous as the Nationalist movement had a chance. Gustav Oppermann’s books, ranged along the walls, the library and study formed an agreeable combination of good taste and comfort; the likeness of Immanuel Oppermann, shrewd, kindly, lifelike, observed the company; one’s foundations were firm, one was equipped with comprehensive knowledge, enjoyed the fine things bygone centuries had developed, had a substantial bank balance. It seemed ridiculous to
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