Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. “Ungracious little beast, I call her. Besides—there is Sir John.
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