He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. “I am sorry. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. The poor widow was thrown into an agony of distress on learning that a robbery had been committed, in which her son (for she could not doubt that Jack was one of the boys,) was implicated; nor was her anxiety alleviated by Mrs. A slow anger burned in the man.
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