‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. ’ ‘That is what you think? Let us try!’ ‘Don’t be idiotic!’ She was backing from him, reaching through one of the slits she had carefully manufactured in her petticoat. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. ‘I’m a soldier, missie. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. “You have the ideas. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder.
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