Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. ‘Not here. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much. I have very few friends in Paris. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter.
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