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Its Walls Were As Of Jasper

           Mybeautifulbookwasgonetoo—ravishedfrommygraspbythedressylady,whojoinedintheoutburstofdenunciationasheartilyasifshehadbeenarelative—andnaughtwasleftmebuttoblubberdismally,awakenedofasuddentotheharshnessofrealthingsandtheunnumberedhostilitiesoftheactualworld.Icaredlittlefortheirreproaches,theirabuse;butIsorrowedheartilyformylostship,myvanishedisland,myuneatendinner,andfortheknowledgethat,ifIwantedanyangelstoplaywith,Imusthenceforthputupwiththeanaemic,night-gownednonentitiesthathoveredoverthebedoftheSunday-schoolchildinthepagesoftheSabbathImprover.

           Iwasledignominiouslyoutofthehouse,inapulpy,waterystate,whilethebutlerhandledhisswingdoorswithastony,impassivecountenance,intendedforthedeceptionoftheveryelect,thoughitdidnotdeceiveme.Iknewwellenoughthatnexttimehewasoffduty,andstrolledaroundourway,weshouldmeetinourkitchenasmantoman,andIwouldpunchhimandaskhimriddles,andhewouldteachmetrickswithcorksandbitsofstring.Sohisunsympatheticmannerdidnotaddtomydepression.

           Imaintainedadiplomaticblubberlongafterwehadbeenpackedintoourpony-carriageandthelodge-gatehadclickedbehindus,becauseitservedasasortofarmour-platingagainsthecklingandargumentandabuse,andIwasthinkinghardandwantedtobeletalone.AndthethoughtsthatIwasthinkingweretwo

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