"Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. . In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest. .
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