“My Mom was a good lady. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. I couldn't accept anything from you. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. " "Your father did right," replied Jack, with some bitterness. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. .
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