With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. “Pump, pump, per-um-pump, Pum, Pump, Per-um. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard.
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