‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. “He has asked to see some one,” he whispered to the doctor. Having watched the funeral at some distance, Jonathan fancied he could discern the figure of Jack; but not being quite sure, he entered the church. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. And you’re as clean as fire.
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