—"Oh! about that boy, Thames Darrell. White,” the lady in black satin remarked. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. " A detective. As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken. "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.
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