So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. You see, I’m selfish.
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