“Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone.
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