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| 1 | I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure
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| 2 | in the moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in
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| 3 | its innocent love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me - turn
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| 4 | to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground!
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| 5 | I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora,
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| 6 | in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so
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| 7 | used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not
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| 8 | really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage and experience,
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| 9 | it is a weary, weary while.
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| 10 | They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have
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| 11 | begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall
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| 12 | see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.
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| 13 | He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he
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| 14 | misses in his mistress, something that enlivened him and made him
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| 15 | younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are
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| 16 | feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but
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| 17 | creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed - she sitting at the
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| 18 | bedside - and mildly licks her hand.
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| 19 | Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or
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| 20 | complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her
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| 21 | dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt
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| 22 | has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes,
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| 23 | the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about
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| 24 | our wedding-day, and all that happy time.
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| 25 | What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be - and in
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| 26 | all life, within doors and without - when I sit in the quiet,
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| 27 | shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned
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| 28 | towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and
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| 29 | many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come
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| 30 | the freshest on my mind.
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| 31 | It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me
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| 32 | how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and
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| 33 | bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that
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| 34 | net she wears.
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| 35 | 'Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,' she says, when I
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| 36 | smile; 'but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful;
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| 37 | and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep
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| 38 | in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have
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| 39 | a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I
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| 40 | gave you one!'
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| 41 | 'That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given
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| 42 | you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.'
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| 43 | 'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you,' says Dora, 'then, how I had
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| 44 | cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can
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| 45 | run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those
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| 46 | places where we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some
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| 47 | of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?'
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| 48 | 'Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to
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| 49 | get well, my dear.'
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| 50 | 'Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know!'
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| 51 | It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with
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| 52 | the same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is
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| 53 | a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up
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| 54 | and down stairs now. She lies here all the day.
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| 55 | 'Doady!'
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| 56 | 'My dear Dora!'
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| 57 | 'You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what
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| 58 | you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being
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| 59 | well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.'
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| 60 | 'I will write to her, my dear.'
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| 61 | 'Will you?'
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| 62 | 'Directly.'
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| 63 | 'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my
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| 64 | dear, it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very
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| 65 | much indeed, to see her!'
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| 66 | 'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure
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| 67 | to come.'
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| 68 | 'You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?' Dora whispers,
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| 69 | with her arm about my neck.
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| 70 | 'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?'
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| 71 | 'My empty chair!' She clings to me for a little while, in silence.
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| 72 | 'And you really miss me, Doady?' looking up, and brightly smiling.
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| 73 | 'Even poor, giddy, stupid me?'
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| 74 | 'My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?'
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| 75 | 'Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!' creeping closer to me,
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| 76 | and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is
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| 77 | quiet, and quite happy.
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| 78 | 'Quite!' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her
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| 79 | that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to
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| 80 | wish for.'
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| 81 | 'Except to get well again, Dora.'
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| 82 | 'Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think - you know I always was a silly
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| 83 | little thing! - that that will never be!'
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| 84 | 'Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so!'
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| 85 | 'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my
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| 86 | dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty
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| 87 | chair!'
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| 88 | It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been
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| 89 | among us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have
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| 90 | sat with Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked
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| 91 | much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are
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| 92 | now alone.
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| 93 | Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have
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| 94 | told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts- but I am
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| 95 | far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot
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| 96 | master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep.
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| 97 | I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the
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| 98 | dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate
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| 99 | history. I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself; and
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| 100 | that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly
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| 101 | settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold
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| 102 | her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me,
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| 103 | alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering
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| 104 | shadow of belief that she will be spared.
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| 105 | 'I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I
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| 106 | have often thought of saying, lately. You won't mind?' with a
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| 107 | gentle look.
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| 108 | 'Mind, my darling?'
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| 109 | 'Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have
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| 110 | thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same.
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| 111 | Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young.'
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| 112 | I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes,
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| 113 | and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a
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| 114 | stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past.
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| 115 | 'I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only,
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| 116 | but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a
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| 117 | silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we
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| 118 | had only loved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I
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| 119 | have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.'
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| 120 | I try to stay my tears, and to reply, 'Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I
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| 121 | to be a husband!'
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| 122 | 'I don't know,' with the old shake of her curls. 'Perhaps! But if
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| 123 | I had been more fit to be married I might have made you more so,
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| 124 | too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was.'
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| 125 | 'We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.'
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| 126 | 'I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would
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| 127 | have wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less
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| 128 | a companion for him. He would have been more and more sensible of
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| 129 | what was wanting in his home. She wouldn't have improved. It is
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| 130 | better as it is.'
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| 131 | 'Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word
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| 132 | seems a reproach!'
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| 133 | 'No, not a syllable!' she answers, kissing me. 'Oh, my dear, you
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| 134 | never deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a
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| 135 | reproachful word to you, in earnest - it was all the merit I had,
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| 136 | except being pretty - or you thought me so. Is it lonely, down-
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| 137 | stairs, Doady?'
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| 138 | 'Very! Very!'
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| 139 | 'Don't cry! Is my chair there?'
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| 140 | 'In its old place.'
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| 141 | 'Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise.
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| 142 | I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so,
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| 143 | and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come -
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| 144 | not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to
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| 145 | speak to Agnes, quite alone.'
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| 146 | I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for
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| 147 | my grief.
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| 148 | 'I said that it was better as it is!' she whispers, as she holds me
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| 149 | in her arms. 'Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have
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| 150 | loved your child-wife better than you do; and, after more years,
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| 151 | she would so have tried and disappointed you, that you might not
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| 152 | have been able to love her half so well! I know I was too young and
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| 153 | foolish. It is much better as it is!'
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| 154 | Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her the
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| 155 | message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.
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| 156 | His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed
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| 157 | of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high
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| 158 | and clear. As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my
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| 159 | undisciplined heart is chastened heavily - heavily.
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| 160 | I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those
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| 161 | secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of
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| 162 | every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that
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| 163 | trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my
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| 164 | remembrance, is the image of the dear child as I knew her first,
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| 165 | graced by my young love, and by her own, with every fascination
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| 166 | wherein such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been better if
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| 167 | we had loved each other as a boy and a girl, and forgotten it?
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| 168 | Undisciplined heart, reply!
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| 169 | How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my
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| 170 | child-wife's old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls
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| 171 | out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and
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| 172 | whines to go upstairs.
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| 173 | 'Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!'
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| 174 | He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim
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| 175 | eyes to my face.
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| 176 | 'Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!'
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| 177 | He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and
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| 178 | with a plaintive cry, is dead.
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| 179 | 'Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!'
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| 180 | - That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears,
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| 181 | that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards
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| 182 | Heaven!
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| 183 | 'Agnes?'
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| 184 | It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all
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| 185 | things are blotted out of my remembrance.
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