"What are you waiting for?" asked Jack, impatiently. On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. ’ ‘I chose to come with you, miss,’ Jack interrupted more firmly. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. The doors of several of the wards were thrown open for these parties, and as Jack passed, he could not help glancing at the wretched inmates. The boy was right. You don’t want to look like Bozo. And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing.
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