He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He had said so. Raising the bowl in his right hand, Jack glanced towards the balcony, in which the group of ladies were seated, and begged to drink their healths; he then turned to Kneebone and the others, who extended their hands towards him, and raised it to his lips.
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