" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. ” Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. But then he began to take steps, and, at last, strides to something more and more like predominance. He held her eyes.
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