She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. ” She stopped buttoning her glove, and looked at him. "If you've done wrong, confess it, and I'll forgive you!" "I don't deserve to be forgiven!" returned Jack, bursting into tears; "for I'm afraid I've done very wrong. In some incomprehensible way that back view made her feel sorry for Alice. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. It'll be turning over to-morrow.
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