I thought that you were he. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. However, to cut a long matter short, my proposal's this: —I've taken a fancy to your bantling, and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and that of Mrs. “I promise, Lucy. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it. “You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her.
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