But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. The door opened. “Dear husband,” she murmured. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. “Why not? It might amuse me. ’” “Is ‘Alcide’ still in Paris?” Ennison asked.
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