” The shock of their intellectual attitude was over, usage robbed it of the first quaint effect of deliberate unreason. His vicious abusiveness vanished. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. David left this afternoon. You will sever ties with your own kin?” “Yes. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her.
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