The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket.
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