One gets drawn into things. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon.
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