She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. “As a matter of fact, I deserve to. " "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. An uncomfortable silence followed. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. It was among artistic people. .
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