Be off!" "Jack!" exclaimed his unhappy parent. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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