What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. Figg?" said Jack, peevishly. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word.
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