” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. "And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded.
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