What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. She felt pride sashay into her thoughts. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. .
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