"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Jack did not advance to meet her. She leaned back in her chair. He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. “You’re splendid.
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