I was always told my mother died the day I was born. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. “I’ve brought you up some dinner, Vee,” she said. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. I did not choose to mention my knowledge of this fact to your worthy father; but you may rely on its correctness.
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