Her voice was weak and flat. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. "But if it is thy will to take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story.
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