Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. He had been frozen in time at age forty-two. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. I had been about as foolish and selfish as a girl could be. “Did they ever try it for themselves?” He wrestled his chin between her thighs as she tried to squeeze her legs shut upon his ears.
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