But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. I will lay them all at your feet. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. I can never be grateful enough. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. But I see now. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped.
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