"My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. It was perfectly logical. “You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment.
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