At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. Three short days. He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. The place pulsed with music too loud to converse above. A hansom stopped a little way off.
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