“One genius in the family is enough. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable art. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. My birthday was on May first. And grasping the thick iron rod, she pushed with all her force against it, while Jack seconded her efforts from within. Such stories were increasingly heard in English society.
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