At this terrible juncture, Jack maintained his composure,—a smile played upon his face before the cap was drawn over it,—and the last words he uttered were, "My poor mother! I shall soon join her!" The rope was then adjusted, and the cart began to move. " The Wastrel laughed. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Ah! what's that?" he exclaimed, as some one brushed hastily past him.
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