Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. He’s the handle of life for you.
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