She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. “My child, I do not wish. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. I came to the Beck’s house. Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. "The glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin', I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees.
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