He could respond to no earthly or human appeal, dumb and insensible to the call of summer and gladness and companionship, wearied and dejected by his father's voice. God spoke to you by so many voices, but you would not hear. His evenings were his own; and he pored over a ragged translation of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. The wretched child had spoken exactly as if she had got from some outside source each of her stabbing little words, and I could therefore, in the full despair of all I had to accept, but sadly shake my head at her.
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