"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. For my blood you made it very hot indeed. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. And I have made such arrangements that at my decease tardy justice will be done my injured nephew. I want to leave it for ever. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him.
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