I was—I was a corespondent. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father.
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