My heart fails me. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind.
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