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Then he went to Coretti's seat, and wakened him very, very gently, by blowing in his face. On beholding the master in front of him, he started back in alarm. But the master took his head in his hands, and said, as he kissed him on the hair: "I am not reproving you, my son. Your sleep is not at all that of laziness; it is the sleep of fatigue." Saturday, 17th.
I always scald my fingers with this coffee-pot. What is there that I can add after the soldiers' knapsacks? Something more is needed, and I can think of nothing. Come to mamma." He opened a door, and we entered another small room: there Coretti's mother lay in a big bed, with a white kerchief wound round her head.
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