"I can do without it," muttered Jack. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. "Comfort yourself, my charmer," said Mr. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words.
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