"You've given him a broken head, I perceive. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. "To-morrow I will take you to him. Be a sport, and pile it all on me!" He went to bed.
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