Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. She drank it obediently. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. ‘I am not French in the least, bête.
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