CHAPTER VIII. John looked at his feet bashfully. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not.
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