In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. " "Come along!" cried Jack, darting through the door. Twenty guineas, mind. " "My mind's made up," rejoined Jack, coldly,—"we part to-night. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad.
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