Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. Mr. . He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. After the dance, they went to a party. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture. "Lady Trafford would not have thus condemned me!" cried Thames.
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