EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. It’s not you—not a bit. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. ’ ‘But what have I done?’ protested Gerald innocently. Daughters were not like sons. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue.
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