"No," answered Jack, approaching her, "though, if I had done so, he would have merited his fate. She could have kissed Cathy. He had hired not one but two engineers to record the event, subsidized entirely out of his own meager pocket. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. So this was what it was all about. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. I was raised in the Church.
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