And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. Jackson appears to do, it can't be very offensive to be told, that he's like him. " "Norris!" gasped Lady Trafford, trembling violently.
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