" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Spurling; Austin had never quitted his post. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. E. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. The Supper at Mr.
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