I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. He saluted awkwardly. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. Later, when the Reverend Henry Dolby entered the Spurlock room, his wife and daughter trailing amusedly behind him, and beheld the strained eagerness on the two young faces, he smiled inwardly and indulgently. But he was wide awake.
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