A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. " "I don't care for that," replied Jack. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold.
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