Wild himself if I met him," retorted Jack. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Michelle, I truly don’t. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster.
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