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"You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. “Do you know why they are estranged?” Lucy asked. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. "Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair.
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