“What have you done?”
212
“It is your own fault, Lucia. F. Her mind turned to her own future, the
endless trickle of years. She would come back and write letters,
carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from
Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and
think. So he made merry at the
dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which
she grasped the comic side of life. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against
father. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!"
"Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. "And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?" remarked Hogarth. ”
“Do you think so? I find my interest in that sort of thing decline and decline. I'm a stickler about clothes and clean chins.
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