The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. “What are you doing?” He cried. \"I'm sixteen, I'm a junior like you. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. But Jack was too well versed in the geography of the place to attempt either of them.
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