She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Fortescue, with a bow. "Your son," answered the boy. . ‘Forgive this intrusion, ma’am, I beg. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy.
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