“This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. She led him up the long hall solemnly. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. And when I have steeped him to the lips in vice and depravity; when I have led him to the commission of every crime; when there is neither retreat nor advance for him; when he has plundered his benefactor, and broken the heart of his mother—then—but not till then, I will consign him to the fate to which I consigned his father. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London.
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