And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. He could scarcely blame her.
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