" "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. ‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature.
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