The phone did not ring. He was heartily thankful for it. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. " "I'll bet she still smells to heaven with sour coconut. ‘I was not born to this. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood.
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