The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. "What do you want fot that coat, friend?" asked Jack, as he came up. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it.
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