"Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. "Where am I?" asked Spurlock. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. It must be the dawn creeping in. If I surprised her, if I saw her alone, I might make her understand.
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