"My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. He could hardly open the envelope, he trembled so. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. I was forced to lay on a bed of nails for three days. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. " The little girl's countenance fell. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially.
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