He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours.
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