It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. And there was another matter. As for the doctor, he found a pleasure in this service that would have puzzled him had he paused to analyse it. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. ‘Very well, then.
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