"Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. \"Are you aware that every girl in Princeton Hills would kill for a chance at him? I think it's simple. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. I’m a man, and I know what I mean. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. Pity he's ta'en to bad ways so airly. Sheppard," cried the carpenter's wife bitterly; "and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her.
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