“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. "Back!" he cried fiercely. Quite right. \" She said, bashful. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. I’m glad you’re back for all sorts of reasons. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. CHAPTER XI. ” “I suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get some such entanglement.
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