" "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. " "You are an angel, I say," continued the poor maniac; "and my Jack would have been like you, if he had lived. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. “Queer letters he writes,” she said.
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