She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. It isn’t what I have been but what I am.
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