I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a
burglar. No doubt she let him take the impression of the door-key in wax,
and then he'll get in and murder you all. There was a family at Kobble Hill
all killed last week for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so, it will be
bad for the baby.
Poor little dear! How singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell
whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb or a cripple at that age. It
might be _all_, and you'd never know it.
Most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though;
_that_ ought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything
dreadful the matter with it. And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's
funeral down the street as I came along.
How is Mr. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm in town, eh? Well, I should
think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with sun-stroke.
You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. Anyhow, a trip
on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one.
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