“No, no,” she cried. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. Annabel, I was lying. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. You ought to have had better advice two years ago. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek.
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