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"My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so.
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