She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. And I don’t. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian.
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