Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. ” They were in the elder Widgett girl’s bedroom; Hetty was laid up, she said, with a sprained ankle, and a miscellaneous party was gossiping away her tedium. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out.
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