It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. He knew that he could translate literally. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. Spare me yet a little while, Father! not for my own sake, but for the sake of this poor babe. "But never mind who, or what I am.
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