" "Jack, my love," cried Mrs. I don’t defend it. ” She had not, she reflected, remembered how prominent his eyes were. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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