Charvill’s fury was burning out. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. A severe pang shot through Jack's heart, and he would have given worlds if he possessed them to have seen his friend once more. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief. The perfume was the only one she ever used. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief.
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