"My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. I was reduced to 170 a fool, for there were many pretty women from all walks of life in that teeming city. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled.
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