A young man was playing the banjo. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. "I hardly know," returned Jack; "but it's not safe for me to remain much longer here. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre.
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