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. There was no rush. I take more than their blood, John. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. ‘Pen and paper, do you have them?’ ‘Danged if I have,’ came the truculent response.
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