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Updated: May 21, 2025
Jessica had long been a favorite with her, and Brown seemed non-committal. Mr. Geary looked at her sharply, but she said the name glibly, and Jessica was what he called "highfalutin" enough to fit her evident station in life, so he made no comment. "Where do you live?" he went on. "I have no home," said Marjorie, steadily; "I am a findling." "A what?" "A findling, from the asylum."
Though unnerved herself, Mrs. Maynard clasped her daughter close and soothed the poor, quivering child. "Are you my mother?" wailed Marjorie, in agonized tones; "are you?" "Yes, my child, yes!" and there was no doubting that mother-voice. "Then why, why did you tell Mrs. Corey I was a findling?" "Tell Mrs. Corey what?"
"Oh, don't tell 'em all that, you'll never get it done. But I suppose they are curious to know. Well, cut it short." "'You see, dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both, I am not a findling, as I supposed." "That's not findling, Midget, you mean foundling." "I don't think so. And, anyway, they mean just the same, I'm going to leave it.
"That's just what I said," repeated Cousin Jack, smiling at the mother's quick defense of her child; "why, if anybody told me I was a, what do you call it? a findling, I'd run away, too!" "Don't run away," said Cousin Ethel, laughing. "I'd have to run with you, or you'd get lost for keeps. And I'd rather stay here.
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