Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. She is, in her way, a dear. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck.
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