"Mother—dear mother!" said Jack, bursting into tears. We have him as safe as a linnet in a cage; and could wring his neck round as easily. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. 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. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. That was Leonardo’s motto.
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