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Sir Oliver Holt grew paler still. He felt as he had done when Jinny Montaubyn's poor dress swept against him. His voice shook when he spoke. "So do I," he said with a sudden deep catch of the breath; "it was the Answer." In a few moments more he went to the girl Polly and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I shall take you home to your mother," he said. "I shall take you myself and care for you both.
There's a lot o' work in yer yet; yer could do all sorts o' things if y' ain't too proud. I'll 'elp yer. So 'll the curick. Y' ain't found out yet what a little folks can live on till luck turns. Me, I'm goin' to try Miss Montaubyn's wye. Le's both try. Le's believe things is comin'. Le's get 'er to talk to us some more." The curate was thinking the thing over deeply.
"But," said Glad, "Miss Montaubyn's lidy she says Godamighty never done it nor never intended it, an' if we kep' sayin' an' believin' 'e's close to us an' not millyuns o' miles away, we'd be took care of whilst we was alive an' not 'ave to wait till we was dead." She got up on her feet and threw up her arms with a sudden jerk and involuntary gesture. "I 'm alive!
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