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Updated: May 19, 2025
"My God!" cried Basil Hurlhurst, starting to his feet, pale as death, his eyes fairly burning, and the veins standing out on his forehead like cords, "you do not know what you say, woman! My little child Evalia's child and mine not dead, but stolen on the night its mother died! My God! it can not be; surely you are mad!" he shrieked. "It is true, master," she moaned, "true as Heaven."
This accounts for my restlessness all these years, when I thought of my child my restless longing and fanciful dreams! I thought her quietly sleeping on Evalia's breast. God only knows what my tender little darling has suffered, or in what part of the world she lives, or if she lives at all!" It had been just one hour since Basil Hurlhurst had entered that room, a placid-faced, gray-haired man.
Don't stand there staring at me; you are losing golden moments. Fly at once, I tell you!" Poor old Mason was literally astounded. What had come over his kind, courteous master? "I have nothing that could aid them in the search," he said to himself, pacing restlessly up and down the room. "Ah! stay! there is Evalia's portrait! The little one must look like her mother if she is living yet!"
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