Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. A wrathful God was watching him. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. She had something of the feeling a Hindoo must experience who has been into surroundings or touched something that offends his caste. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. I've often seen them storming the Carnegie Hall stage. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home.
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