On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. At last, she breathed. ‘But you are idiot. And now—Dear! Dear! The dayspring from on high hath visited me. "Do you mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how I please—eh?" "Don't question me, but leave me," replied the widow wildly; "you had better.
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