But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath.
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