"You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Then I think I remarked that science was disgracefully under-endowed, and confessed I’d had to take to more profitable courses. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. There are unwritten laws governing human conduct. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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