Smith's solitary orb followed in the same direction. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. "I cannot do it. C below. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Her lips parted, but no words came.
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