She leaned a little towards him. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. Jacques is very bad, and I am afraid he may die. He began to tell me something—and stopped. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. Hope reared. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy.
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