You never can tell. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. “You doubted me?” She joked. She could not apply it in this instance because she was not sure the application would be correct. Of this boy she had only caught a glimpse;—but that glimpse was sufficient to satisfy her it was her son,—and, if she could have questioned her own instinctive love, she could not question her antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed by a pillar immediately in the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark figure and truculent features of Jonathan Wild. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. There was another little thing he had to say.
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