“I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. "Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper. ‘Come on, Hilary. " "As you please," returned Jack, leaping up; "but I feel devilishly inclined to finish him. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on.
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