He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. Anna was singing as she used to sing. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. His smile faded. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father.
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