"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. '" "No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. Drummond nodded. There was a coffee equipage on the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made up. "That would be certain destruction. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek.
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