" "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack. ” His walk became a jovial saunter. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. Well, they’d got to the pheasants, and in a little while he would smoke. But there was a face pressed to the glass. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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