“Bother it all!” she swore. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. After all, they’re history in the making. Mirrors. " "It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. Ain't you, Jacky darling?" "Not quite, Poll," returned Mr. "Have you sent off the note?" inquired Jack.
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