William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. ’ She stopped, for Jack was feebly laughing. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. “I don’t believe there is one.
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