The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. ‘You are there. “You’ve got to take the decent reasonable way. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. My only love is for my poor lost son. But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her.
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