All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our cottage.
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I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while. They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip. He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistre...
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