She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. She could tell that he was leering at her. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home.
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