She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames.
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