Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. 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. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Life waits for us.
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