" "I am one-and-twenty," observed Jack. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. "Some one must have assisted him.
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