McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. 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. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene.
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