His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished.
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