The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door. "I know not—and care not," replied Jack. The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect. She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints. But that instinct is severely dampened most of the time. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player.
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