“So you’re the one my son has been talking about. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. " "And you expect me to believe you after what has passed?" "I do; and, more than that, I expect you to thank me. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. I must bless him before I die. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr.
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