How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. Again he rushed.
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