But the virtues and the peccadilloes of their ancestors, we may be
sure, were not interesting, our two young men as they swung up the
Avenue arm in arm, this particular afternoon, the sidewalks
crowded with the fashion of the day, the roadway blocked with
carriages. Nor did any passing objects occupy their attention.
Garry's mind was on Corinne, and what he would tell her, and how
she would look as she listened, the pretty head tucked on one
side, her sparkling eyes drinking in every word of his story,
although he knew she wouldn't believe one-half of it. Elusive and
irritating as she sometimes was, there was really nobody exactly
like Miss Corinne.
Jack's mind had resumed its normal tone. Garry's merry laugh and
good-natured ridicule had helped, so had the discovery that none
of his friends had had anything to do with Gilbert's fall. After
all, he said to himself, as he strode up the street beside his
friend, it was "none of his funeral," none of his business,
really. Such things went on every day and in every part of the
world.
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