As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. “I’d have to sneak out after everyone was asleep. With all your cunning, we're more than a match for you. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer.
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