CHAPTER XXVII. The carpenter trembled; for he perceived Rowland's gaze fixed first upon the infant, and then on himself. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. “If I do,” he said.
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