’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. It was decrepit and too large. I took the money myself, and ought to know. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Your father has forbidden you to go!’” “Well?” “She said, ‘I hate being horrid to you and father, but I feel it my duty to go to that ball!’” “Felt it her duty!” “‘Very well,’ I said, ‘then I wash my hands of the whole business. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. If they hadn't sent for me, you'd have pegged out before morning.
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