A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy.
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