Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. "Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. Happy Birthday, then. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it.
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