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Within the chancel and to the right of the pulpit, a large reversible blackboard had recently been placed, and on a chair in front of it stood Beryl, engrossed in putting the finishing touches to a sketch which filled the entire board; and oblivious for the moment of Eve Werneth's baby, who, having emptied her bottle of milk, had pulled herself up by the chair, and with the thumb of her right hand in her mouth, was staring up at the picture.
Baptize her Dovie Eve Werneth's baby. Don't ever tell her she was born in jail. Raise her a good good . She had a sort of spasm then, and squeezed the child so tight, it screamed. In five minutes, she was dead. Only nineteen years old, and the little one just two years; and not yet weaned! I don't know what to do; so I brought you.
Dovie Eve Werneth's child but you will always be to me Dulce, my pretty clinging Dulce, my velvet-eyed cherub model."
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