“It isn’t quite that we’re toys. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. Figg?" said Jack, peevishly. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment.
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