So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. Purney, the ordinary, who had latterly conceived a great regard for Jack, addressed him in a discourse, which, while it tended to keep alive his feelings of penitence, was calculated to afford him much consolation. ” “I can assure you,” he answered, “that it isn’t a habit of mine. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. “They mould one insensibly.
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