"You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. 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. At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood altered the position of the bundle.
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