Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ‘He isn’t Valade, and the Comtesse de St Erme is absolutely furious. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. Of a certainty, she also was imbecile. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still.
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