“I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. ‘Kill him? Oh. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights.
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