“I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work.
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