For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began. Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out "Mother!" "Who's there?" asked a faint voice from the bed.
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