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"Relating to the father of the boy—Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Certainly you have a reason. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground. The fates are never so kind to me.
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