" He approached the bed and laid his palm on the patient's forehead, and nodded. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. "Your son," answered the boy. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr.
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