But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. “The Widgetts,” she said. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips.
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