They are born idiots, incurably insane. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief.
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