. ’ There was a silence. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. It shall be the bludgeon. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. But leave me here in my home, child, I will disintegrate if I am exposed. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort.
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