Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes.
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