From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. " "But not for me," growled Terence, in an under tone. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. She dismissed the idea of doing so. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. " "Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses.
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