"Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. ‘Assuredly it is locked up. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. But his grief was of short duration. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. She never calls herself ‘Alcide.
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