"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent's tenderness. She had agonized over it for weeks. \"May I come in?\" His bravado was increasing.
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