Ah Coom. I'll dig it up. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. His age was not far from fifty. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. She was finally dead, going to Hell. I didn’t believe him and I said so. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. Everything. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. And all the third act is love-sick music.
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