"A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. He seemed like a very intelligent doctor and not at all like a snooty archbishop.
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