"What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. What was his transport on perceiving that a few yards above him a light was burning. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. " "Well, well, I'm not within a minute," rejoined the turnkey.
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