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Something, I think, struggled up in the touch of his hand, catching the skirt of his child's dress, when it came near him, with the timid tenderness of a mother touching her dead baby's hair, as something holy, far off, yet very near: something in his old crime-marked face, a look like this dog's, putting his head on my knee, a dumb, unhelpful love in his eyes, and the slow memory of a wrong done to his soul in a day long past.
Some day you and I'll go out to the country, and be good children together." What dawning of a new hope was this? She did not feel as if she lied. Some day, it might be true. Yet the vague gleam died out of her heart, and when Ben, in his white night-gown, knelt down to say the prayer his mother had taught him, it was "Devil Lot's" dead, crime-marked face that bent over him.
Something, I think, struggled up in the touch of his hand, catching the skirt of his child's dress, when it came near him, with the timid tenderness of a mother touching her dead baby's hair, as something holy, far off, yet very near: something in his old crime-marked face, a look like this dog's, putting his head on my knee, a dumb, unhelpful love in his eyes, and the slow memory of a wrong done to his soul in a day long past.
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