" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams.
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