"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. “—but this cannot be. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. ‘Kill him? Oh.
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