Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper. Return to him, I say—" "I can't," replied Jack, doggedly. "You are all right?"—anxiously. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. What he wanted desperately was to be alone.
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