But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. " "Six weeks have elapsed since that fatal night," replied Jack. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. " And, with this generous resolve, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Arrest! arrest! help! help!" seconding the words with a shrill and peculiar cry, well known at the time to the inhabitants of the quarter in which it was uttered. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. The rumor mills churned with the news that he harbored for her no ill will, but was simply too busy in his life to have a girlfriend that wasn’t “serious”.
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