She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. He was all alone, too. "Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. We'll get those books into your room first. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. Spare me, and I'll be quiet—quiet —quiet!" "Mother!" said Jack, advancing towards her.
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