” “Yes,” said Mr. "Mother—dear mother!" said Jack, bursting into tears. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. Then came the great day. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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