" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. " "So I've found out the way to move her," thought the carpenter; "those tears will do her some good, at all events. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears.
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