" O'Higgins grinned. “I do not think so. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them. He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. " "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper.
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