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Updated: May 14, 2025
She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. The doctor bent down. "Let me take him." She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor handed him back to his nurse. "You'd better put him back in his own bed." "Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.
Hudson, for a moment, looked it in the face. She repeated her son's words a third time with a gasping murmur, and then, suddenly, she burst into tears. Roderick went to her, sat down beside her, put his arm round her, fixed his eyes coldly on the floor, and waited for her to weep herself out. She leaned her head on his shoulder and sobbed broken-heartedly.
I want my Karwan Bashi," sobbed the Comfortable Camel broken-heartedly. "Well, don't drown me," begged the Cowardly Lion, moving out of the way of the camel's tears. "Say, what's that draft?" What indeed?
If it hadn't been for him I shouldn't be here now. I should be dying there! Mr. Barry is going to get him and bring him away. Oh, why didn't I prevent him!" Geraldine broke down completely, weeping broken-heartedly into the handkerchief. Miss Upton smiled over her head.
She cried in general, and she cried in particular over each discarded thing. She clasped hands about knees, rocking back and forth broken-heartedly. She averred she would not go an inch, not for a dozen Charleses. She appealed to everybody and to everything, finally wiping her eyes and proceeding to cast out even articles of apparel that were imperative necessaries.
She came over to him then, and put her two hands on his shoulders. "Ted dear will you ever forgive me? I'll try to make up for it now. I didn't know. I've been blind. Worse than blind. Criminal." She was weeping now, broken-heartedly, and he was patting her with little comforting love pats, and whispering words of tenderness. "Forgive you? Forgive you what?" "The years of suffering.
"Th' gun's not Bob's!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray "Th' clothes is not Bob's! Now I knows 'tis not my boy we've found." "Yes, Mary," said he broken-heartedly. "Tis Bob th' wolves got. Our poor lad is gone. No one else could ha' had his things."
In that peaceful summer I finished my first novel, knocked Garibaldi on the head with a closing rhapsody, saw the York spring and summer races in hopelessly wet weather, learnt to love the Yorkshire people, and left Yorkshire almost broken-heartedly on a dull gray October morning, to travel Londonwards through a landscape that was mostly under water.
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