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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

That's brave!'
'--The kind of places,' said the blind man, 'that a young fellow likes,
and in which a good son may do more for his mother, and himself to boot,
in a month, than he could here in all his life--that is, if he had a
friend, you know, and some one to advise with.'
'You hear this, mother?' cried Barnaby, turning to her with delight.
'Never tell me we shouldn't heed it, if it lay shining at out feet. Why
do we heed it so much now? Why do you toil from morning until night?'
'Surely,' said the blind man, 'surely. Have you no answer, widow? Is
your mind,' he slowly added, 'not made up yet?'
'Let me speak with you,' she answered, 'apart.'
'Lay your hand upon my sleeve,' said Stagg, arising from the table; 'and
lead me where you will. Courage, bold Barnaby. We'll talk more of this:
I've a fancy for you. Wait there till I come back. Now, widow.'
She led him out at the door, and into the little garden, where they
stopped.
'You are a fit agent,' she said, in a half breathless manner, 'and well
represent the man who sent you here.'
'I'll tell him that you said so,' Stagg retorted. 'He has a regard for
you, and will respect me the more (if possible) for your praise.


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