I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. So kind, so good to me always. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you.
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