Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. I said I’d make shirts. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian.
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