You and I. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “I love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. "If things had gone smoothly," he thought, "I should have cursed the fellow's stupidity.
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