“Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. ‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers.
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