"You had better let me convey her to Dollis Hill," he said. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. “Damned Rascal!” he said. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. "It's Mrs. Spurling, squeezing Jack's arm, and pushing him towards the door, "and, don't come here again. '" "No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs.
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