‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. "If I were your father, young gentleman," returned Jackson, enraged at the interruption, "I'd teach you not to speak till you were spoken to. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Always as black and bitter as gall.
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