Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. “Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued. He drew a little breath of relief. There was a hint of tears in her voice. Her little white hand stole across the table. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. Wait a little; rest. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless.
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