She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. And immeasurable was the calm evolved from this knowledge. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. ‘And I have a very good mind to kill you. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. ” “Well, fuck you too. ” “You—you did what?” Anna exclaimed.
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