. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed.
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