" "Thank you! thank you!" faltered Jack, in a voice full of emotion. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars.
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