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I sat by the bed of a little girl yesterday who has been in the hospital over six months. She has hip disease. When she was brought here from one of the vilest places in the city, taken away from a drunken mother, she was the saddest-looking child I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated, covered with vermin and pitiable to behold, I could hardly help crying when I saw her brought in.
What is the world coming to?" and so forth, she would occasionally say to herself: "Guess I've made a fool of myself this time. I do feel that 'shamed of myself." She would not lose by it. We should respect her all the more. Last year, travelling on the Underground Railway, I met a man; he was one of the saddest-looking men I had seen for years.
The running of the Russians ceased only when no more came in from the farms. Those who had been put out came out of the Revier in a day or so some in a few hours pale and spiritless, and were sent back to work again. They had the saddest-looking faces I ever saw old and wistful, some of them; others, gaping and vacant; some, wild and staring. They would never resist again they were surely broken!
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