"My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. But it was the form of her ruling determination; it was the only form that she ever allowed to see daylight. "I understand," replied Rowland. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell.
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