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It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. All through the night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes confronted her, and she argued with him about men and women. Well, I'll have a look-see at this young De Maupassant. "To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. I've bumped into so much of the underside that I can't see clean any more. A medley of motives warred in her, and it was certainly not one of the least of these that she knew herself to be passionately in love with Capes; at moments she had a giddy intimation that he was beginning to feel keenly interested in her.
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