Without saying what he had, he led me to the house, and stood behind me, while I went inside.

And then he could not keep his voice as I went from one picture of his darling to another, not thinking (as I should have done) of what his feelings might be, but trying, as no two were at all alike, to extract a general idea of her.
"Nobody knows what her were to me," the old man said, with a quiet little noise and a sniff behind my shoulder.

"And with one day's illness her died--her died." "But you have others left.

She was not the only one.

Please, Mr.
Withypool, to try to think of that.