In the biological laboratory that was their invincible tone. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. My only love is for my poor lost son. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. Epithalamy might do. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. . .
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