I'll forgive him if he does. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. "Utterly," reiterated Jack, gloomily,—"as regards all I hold dear. “Holy shit!” Giggling and snickering was amplified by asbestos tiles and reverberated by metal desks.
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