’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box.
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