It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. ToC During the whole of the next day and night, the poor widow hovered like a ghost about the precincts of the debtors' garrison,—for admission (by the Master's express orders,) was denied her. "Where are the boys?" "In the hall.
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