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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

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

In another minute, he was wild with delight; in
another, full of grief at the prospect of parting with his friends the
dogs; in another, wild again; then he was fearful of what she had said
to prevent his wandering abroad that night, and full of terrors and
strange questions. His light-heartedness in the end surmounted all his
other feelings, and lying down in his clothes to the end that he might
be ready on the morrow, he soon fell fast asleep before the poor turf
fire.
His mother did not close her eyes, but sat beside him, watching. Every
breath of wind sounded in her ears like that dreaded footstep at the
door, or like that hand upon the latch, and made the calm summer night,
a night of horror. At length the welcome day appeared. When she had made
the little preparations which were needful for their journey, and had
prayed upon her knees with many tears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up
gaily at her summons.
His clothes were few enough, and to carry Grip was a labour of love. As
the sun shed his earliest beams upon the earth, they closed the door of
their deserted home, and turned away. The sky was blue and bright.
The air was fresh and filled with a thousand perfumes.


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