"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. “I wish he had,” she said. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. “Every one.
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