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Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. Well, it's scarcely credible. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. " And, walking up to the animals, which were chained to the wall, they instantly recognised him, and suffered the others to pass without barking. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand.
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