Lucy inhaled deeply. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. What are you to do with a mad mother at a time when you need all your wits to take care of yourself?" "Don't concern yourself further about me," returned Jack.
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