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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

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

He no sooner heard this announcement,
therefore, than he leaned back in his chair, took his pipe from his
lips, and stared at his son with as much dismay as if he already beheld
him tied to a stake, and tortured for the entertainment of a lively
population. In what form of expression his feelings would have found
a vent, it is impossible to say. Nor is it necessary: for, before a
syllable occurred to him, Dolly Varden came running into the room, in
tears, threw herself on Joe's breast without a word of explanation, and
clasped her white arms round his neck.
'Dolly!' cried Joe. 'Dolly!'
'Ay, call me that; call me that always,' exclaimed the locksmith's
little daughter; 'never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never
again reprove me for the follies I have long repented, or I shall die,
Joe.'
'I reprove you!' said Joe.
'Yes--for every kind and honest word you uttered, went to my heart. For
you, who have borne so much from me--for you, who owe your sufferings
and pain to my caprice--for you to be so kind--so noble to me, Joe--'
He could say nothing to her. Not a syllable. There was an odd sort of
eloquence in his one arm, which had crept round her waist: but his lips
were mute.


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