“Who?” She asked. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. "Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. They must be for your father.
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