Forthwith he presented his card. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. . The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind.
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