" The little girl's countenance fell. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. I am no one, Gérard. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. There is worse to come.
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