” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. It heralded you, promised you. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business.
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