It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy.
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