The room was dark and dusty. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. ” “I suppose so. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. "Why you pretended not to recognize the photograph of the young fellow you toted around these diggings all day yesterday. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way.
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