"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. He reeled, and crashed to the floor. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber.
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