" "Uh-huh. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. For some time after he was locked up in this prison Jack continued in a very dejected state. The evenings were dulcet and soft. The young man had knocked over the siphon. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. "And now," cried Jack, leaping up, "for an achievement, compared with which all I have yet done shall be as nothing!" CHAPTER XVII.
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