Miss Annabel is her sister. She’s got a great imagination. My son went down after his death. You guys don’t fool around, that was one big Thanksgiving dinner. She sat herself upon the bed. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. But I'll never part with your irons. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you what hardships I have undergone—to what frightful extremities I have been reduced—and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty subsistence for this child's sake, —if you could feel what it is to stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me, and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the wretched,—if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,—if you were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me, because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would break my heart. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget.
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