It came again. The note-passer lagged behind with her. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. "These writer chaps are queer birds. And a right set-to there were betwixt him and Mr Jarvis, I can tell you. " "Uh-huh. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. She was honest again. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw.
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