He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. "Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. They struck her as cold and indifferent. " "Good enough for me. ".
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