"I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. He will not help them—and I told Emile so—and thus he sends them to my other grandpére, even that he knows he is dead. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used.
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