Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. The reddish-haired young man contributed allusions to the Hegelian philosophy that momentarily confused the discussion. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander.
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