Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. She reached for the door handle. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness.
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