"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. . . That boy," he added, looking at Thames, "has his eye upon us. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. He worried me to marry him. “When are you going away?” He asked. “It isn’t a joke,” she said.
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