He was inclined to be a good-natured person, and he had no nervous fears of receiving a snub. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Do sit down, dear boy.
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