" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. " "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. Mrs.
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