"Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. " "Oh!" exclaimed the widow, covering her face with her hands. At the head of the cart was placed the coffin. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. Phillips Oppenheim’s most intriguing stories.
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