"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. \"Is there something desperately wrong with your house?\" \"There is nothing wrong with our house. ” “And what do you think I ought to do?” “Exactly!” He lifted a paper-weight and dabbed it gently down again.
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