"The plot's out!" cried Jack. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. "By the avenger of his family's dishonour—by your brother," he replied, coolly. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. The two great hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. " "No; she accepts it," rejoined Jonathan, triumphantly.
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