A young man was playing the banjo. Dorling said deferentially. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. The picture of her flashed across the doctor's vision magically. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so. He is extremely old—forty at least—and he has a belly excessively fat. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. laws alone swamp our small staff. The Night-Cellar XVIII. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness.
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