“That’s not. He has been a father to me and my child. It was after all a momentary affair. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. " "Och! if he's a friend o' yours, my dear joy, there's no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him.
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