That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously. “We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. Wood," urged Jack. “Lucy, you have to play for us after dinner, oh please. "What's the matter?" he cried. ” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. " "But how in the Lord's name was she brought up? There's a queer story back of this somewhere. ” Sir John’s reply was incoherent. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. —"Stay! something occurs to me. Every eye was fixed upon the prisoner.
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