Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. “Perhaps, as I’ve only just arrived,” she remarked, “I might be forgiven if I do not change my skirt. ” There came a silence again. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head.
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