‘You’d do the same. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. You're alone, too, child. “I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home.
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