“I do not think so. . ’ She was about to develop this theme, when Jack’s gaze became fixed, and his expression changed. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. ” She patted his arm and wiped her tears away.
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