"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. “I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. They fell in a diapason of smashes. ‘Jacques, do not go!’ Jack gazed steadfastly at the floor. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations.
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