The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. She had not at first the power for concealment. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. " "No—no," laughed Jack.
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