" Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. Daughters were not like sons. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. Constantly sick with the croup or diaper rash.
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