. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. Her father had determined on a new line. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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