‘I do not know. ’ ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Gerald. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. "Dead!" echoed the boy. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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