“Yes, I remember,” she said. But here the resemblance stopped. "What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child," rejoined Mrs. You tell me he didn't like the stuff. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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