" "I see through your design, Jack," returned the carpenter, gravely; "but I don't like under-hand work. He hadn't played fair. At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered.
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