"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. I promise not to do it again. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. “Certainly. ” “Then don’t talk to me now. ‘I did not send you a card because in the normal way of things you rarely attend such affairs.
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