Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. That's the kind, my friend, that always fall soft. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. "And now," cried Jack, leaping up, "for an achievement, compared with which all I have yet done shall be as nothing!" CHAPTER XVII. “I doubted my luck, at least. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot.
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