’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. He was not sure that the boy had put himself beyond the pale; merely, the boy's actions pointed that way. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush.
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