‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. John has made me so happy, I’ve been losing myself in him. " "I'll give you something better worth keeping," she answered, detaching the ornament from her neck, and presenting it to him; "this contains a lock of my hair, and may remind you sometimes of your little sister. You were pointed out to me at—a few nights ago. .
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