And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. ‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. There isn’t. Manning.
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