Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. After all, life had still its pulsations. His tone was kind and sympathetic. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. Besides, those things are deadly.
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