"What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker. She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it.
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