You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. "I have killed her," exclaimed Jack, dropping the bar,—"by your advice, Thames. Well, I don't blame you on that ground.
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