“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Running his hand carefully over it in search of the lock, he perceived to his dismay that it was fastened on the other side. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. " "But, Lord, man!—don't you ever get lonesome?" "Don't you?" "I'm too busy. I'm hungry.
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