She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. I don't know how to explain it," said Spurlock, "but music hits women queerly. Dear me! if there isn't his knock. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. She gathered up the chain, revealing a locket which had lain hidden in her bosom. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite.
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